The world certainly does not spin for your sake, neither does it stop when you desperately need it to. It does not ache bone-deep like the spite you smear across my skin with your atrocious view of the skeleton I should be. I am fragile and ready for the breaking, born to flit unnoticed by the eyes that condemn. However, always open to hold you while you tear me to pieces, but still never ready to forgive your pride for you are not ready to strip your soul from it.

In the concept of this image we built, you spout about being my hero; the self-righteous bastard that is unused to knowing anything but himself and the egocentric being that you happen to be. Your arrogance is a badge worn with the same pride you need to rid yourself of. Guiltlessly you crush the flower bud that I am. I am scrawny fingered and dull-edged, a clumsy human that is just an imitation of what strength truly is. Hungry with the need for both wisdom and love.

Your hands are large enough to cover two of my own and you tower above me like the giant Jack happened to have stolen from. I try to understand your laugh that is a blanket between us —and then again an isolation— while you bark about the ugliness within me. Weaving patches of truth and illusion into a picture that best suits me in your vision of thought, you are the needle that stabs into my skin and sows me to earth with its blotches of red-stained kitchen floors and day old bruises.

I grew to come to know the unkindness of your heart and the hard grip of your soft touches. You drag me deep into the depths of dying dreams and corrupted minds, dirtier than the splattered combats boots of soldiers. You stain me. I am the work of an amateur Picasso, ending and absorb in both my blood and yours, for the sake of wanting to be embraced. While you are just a cold celestial rock.

I thought I am going to trail joy wherever I go, whip out the catalysts of deep burrowed hatred within your veins and save us both carnage of the person you try to make of me. How easy it seems to think of such when in reality you strike me with diet plans, cooking classes and strip me of my clothing whenever you please. Pat my face with makeup, sweetening me up for the camera's flash. Ambitions are not yours to make, you often tell me as protection against the sense of my self.

This has the set answer of it all being my fault rather than yours — that I am but a clawing animal screaming about the injustice that you truly are. The facade of your generosity and my supposed grass stained knees are a conquest of our relationship. There is a satisfying need you see in using your knives and me as your target. Eyes wide, mouths agape and tears staining every sheet we own are the inexorable truth to who we both are. Blood is our colour and bruises our mark.

You search out my failings and flaws to make yours more bearable; it is easier for you —then— to identify yourself as the hero within my story. Perfection is the goal you set, a distant vision that you slap into me every day. One day I will fall apart. The essence of my will to hold up against the fist that is yours will fade and my skin will sag while my bones break, all the while you will scream a bloodcurdling tone and yell about the burnt knowledge of everything you have tried to pound into me to be the quiet, perfect wife. My tongue is supposed to be held and only released when you wish it to be so.

You believe to be this hero that will gain the riches of the world by forming me into an impeccable sculptor that the Gods will even envy, so society will pat you on those broad shoulders of yours. While in truth I am the unashamed framework holding steady against your thrashing waves.

Camaraderie, you shout about while crushing me in a one-armed hug in public view and yet pass the cigarette to burn my flesh with. Mocking my retorts in high-pitched tones, our goals in life weave together and our story keeps being written in dried-up ink while the blood that binds us is somehow our show of affection. I kiss the hand of the king that strikes me, because my mind is fragile and dependant on your unstaunched devotion. I am just a fool blinded by imaginings based on my pure desire to warm that cold heart of yours, trapped within genuine fear that is both for you and me.

Each word you spit holds different meanings and somehow they manage to come from the same manuscript. You caress the wounds you inflict, kiss them and let your tears stain the swollen flesh that is my own. Although you seem to think yourself the ideal man, who has all the reasons in the world to belittle the value of my life, you cling to me dearly with every single insult. I am not deemed worthy, in your eyes. You defile me with blemishes and yet brag about the smoothness of my skin while you hold me up only to push me back down.

We pretend there is no fire embracing us, sizzling at the very skin surrounding our bones and muscles. High fashion and alcohol is what you throw my way; drunk on the fame the media broadcasts with its false smiles and overly blinking eyes, fanning overgrown lashes. Never looked better than on you, darling, you always say lifting those thick brows and smirking the cockiest of smirks. Starving me to the right size is a feat you are proud of. I am your prize, your photograph behind the glossy stained glass windows of a church.

I do not have the guts to speak my mind anymore, because you soak up my confidence with every new day by simply knowing which words are best to break me down while still keeping me glued together. So I hold my breath waiting for your judgement to shine upon me with that talented tongue of yours that twists sentences like melting sugar canes. It is too tempting to give in to the blind passion I have for wanting you to accept me and for the peerless need to help you see who you were before this, so that is why I never back away from the rugged breathing and trembling limbs.

You are no hero —your majesty— nothing of the sorts, just a lowly knight refusing to bow before me.

You lack the strength and courage to ask for my forgiveness so we continue with this charade and your tear stained face when it is I who should be crying. Your heart is tender —the complete opposite of the firm exterior with its rough edges and scarred bits— and it wanders the lonely crooked path of uncertain footsteps, chained by a past of brutal goodbye's and pissed bedsheets.

I walk barefoot into the thorns that you lay out for me without any hesitation, while you are eager to see me bleed and yet still want to comfort me. I am a silent mockingbird, dancing to the tunes you hum just to please the anger boiling from within you. I wait and continue to wait for your trembling lips to finally part to speak the words your pride holds back. Painful breaths, hitched puffs of air and stained dress shirts surround us and are the main mast from our sailings.

While you try to break me, scar me and spit in my face, I know that deep down you are ready to kneel before me and beg for warmth. Your body is barely able to do its life-preserving work for with every whip of your chain you not only beat me but yourself. You grip my hands tightly to hurt, and still you are afraid to hold them. I crumble under your weight, I scream at the pressure you apply to me and all I can do while you carve me like a mason is see a man who desperately wants to lay himself bare before a woman he actually loves, but is too afraid to do so.

You falter the faster I fall, dumbstruck by your actions. Surely, you did not think of the consequences it would all have. That is not how you work. I wake up everyday and consciously choose to love you, even though I am brutally aware of the raw power you hold within your grasp. For as long as I can remember, you've spewed nothing but insults and vague suggestions of loving me back.

Sometimes, I do want to leave you, knowing it would be best on my health and mental state of mind, but it's only a matter of time before I would go back and stay with you — forever. Right here where you let me curl in on the floor in a heap of shame and bundled up fears, right behind your back as you pretend everything is okay between us when in truth it is not. But. . . even in all those blood filled, broken boned memories we share, there is also a depth of understanding each other, which is something beyond imagining and even though you fix me up and starve me to present me to a world that should not be part of what we have, in your eyes, I can see that I am your God.

Author's Note:

By the way, thank you to those who review and do not have an account for me to reply back to (: