He Tastes Like Everything Wrong with the World

He tastes like everything wrong with the world, so tell me why I keep coming back?

He’s like silk sheets with one loose thread that you can’t help but pull at, trying to make it perfect again. He walks like a wild fire with no particular destination but he never fails to step back inside the walls of my heart.

When it comes to promises he’s not the best at keeping them stowed away but I’d dance on the ashes of every whispered word we spoke at midnight for a chance to feel his hands scorching pathways down my skin. Sometimes if you sit next to him in silence you can hear the blood beating through his veins and I imagine it must drive him insane, how alive he is. he’s every bit of insanity that I never found comfort in in myself, but through his trembling hands it doesn’t seem so bad.

He’s a little bit like shattered glass that you run your fingertips along the edge of just to see if you’re still alive. He’s got a peculiar characteristic, in one moment he’s worth more than witnessing the last shooting star to ever be seen and the next you’d rather be anywhere but inside the palms of his hands.

His heart is relative to the dark side of the moon as I’ve never gotten a good look at it but I’m still sure it’s there, waiting for someone to make it past his stupid mouth that won’t quit coming up with words for how worried he is that he’ll break you into pieces.

He’s a barely lit cigarette waiting to be stubbed out by someone who cares enough to put him out of his misery, but darling I’m just not that girl.

If I could, I’d pluck his heart from his chest to hold in my pocket for safe keeping, just in case he decides he’s had enough of this whole “love” thing. He’s made to be fallen in love with, and he’s also the boy my mother always tried to warn me about.

Trust me, I wish I’d listened.

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