I would draw you a universe if you were worth the ink,
unfortunately;

blackholes aren't myths and your genetics gave you a messy
tendency to curiosity and I, foolish, scared, trip down (shoved) after you.

You aren't the type to promise anything.

I hold you to violence and unpredictability (sometimes the bruises
on my ribs match the blood on your back) and I (shouldn't)
tell you I prefer you laughing.

I would tear the stars into your bedroom
if you could make me forget the blisters on my fingers but you pretend naiveté
and I scratch off ink stains as permanent as tire-burns.

But don't worry; you'll pour passion down my throat until I
forget your nothing but a craving

a/n: I don't like it. Maybe you do.