Jan 11

Hands and Skin

I want to scream about how naive I was. How every time your fingernails grazed up the side of my arm, it was foreshadowing I couldn’t spot. How those very same nails would rip me apart. 

I hate the word love because it incorporates the idea that when you’re in it, you’ve sold half your soul to someone else. They grip onto you as you to them. 

I would never call what we had love for I sold you myself and you suffocated me. You squeezed me dry of every drop of life I had left in me. 

I find this funny because, for the longest time, I thought I was the one who was holding on too tight.
 
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