I don't remember—care about—the things that mean the most, only the candy-coated shallow lies that gush from your lips, because it they don't hurt as much, and I love you, really I do. Your skin is burnt raw, like charcoal and coal, moving along the scars of my hips, caked with dirt and blood, and I suck in a breath, your nails digging in a little deeper.

“I swear you're a masochist darling.” You lick the inside of your mouth, your eyebrows raise and smile at me, your lips uneven and malice tinted. You're not perfect, far from it, but still, you're almost like an aphrodisiac, shot through my veins, I can't stop. “They say—eyes are the windows to your soul, and yours—” You curve your fingers around my eyes “they reek of vulnerability, someday you're going to get hurt, not that you're not already, I guess—

the broken, they're not always the most beautiful, and you're just that.”