Born in the winter.
Raised by the rain.
Bones cold and brittle.
Eyes shallow and vain.
It tastes different when we kiss. And when you touch me, there is no electricity. You have stopped looking at me like love and I haven’t seen you as poetry in a while, Dear. We sit on opposite sides of the room, you with your cell phone, me with a book, and I want so badly to break that barrier. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe there is no use in trying anymore, love. Maybe you’re already gone. Maybe everything we had left long ago.
And why is it, that the negative voice inside my head belongs to you?
He’s like an onion. Not in a good way… Where you peel back a layer to discover them.
He’s like an onion in the way that the more you peel back, not only you discover the rawness he shows but he will always make you cry.
He’s like an onion in the fact that I can’t do anything with him with out crying.
He’s like an onion.
I no longer like onions.
She pricks herself on the thorns of roses and it just goes to show how even the most innocent things in life have the potential to hurt you.
If only one day I could feel the same love I gave to you. I’d cherish every moment that I had that love