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Personal Note:

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I know which cup to leave chipped in the sink,
Mouth open begging for rot.
I know which word to spill—
Vinegar, nettle, sour-spit—
To make him blink slow and tight,
The way thunder coils before breaking.

It's a little game I play.

I wear the red dress he hates,
The one that clings like wet birth skin,
And I let my laugh scratch the walls
Like a dull blade across glass.
I call him small.
I call him nothing.
I call him mine.

His eyes darken like bruises
Before they ever reach the skin.

I crave the crack of the lamp against the floor,
The sharp breath before he says "",
The heavy heat of his hand
Making sense of my jaw.
That's when the world feels real—
Frayed rug beneath my knees,
Metallic salt on my tongue,
The soft throb of breaking.

He says I make him do it.
I say nothing, wipe the corner of my mouth,
Watch the red bloom like mercy on white tile.

I don't want apologies.
I want the crack, the ruin,
The split lip's gospel—
Proof that he's still in there,
That I can still make him burn.

He cries after. Every time.
Like some god who forgot how to love
Except by flooding the earth.

And I hold him. I tell him it's okay.
It is. It is.

It's love, isn't it?
The jagged mouth, the broken glass,
The fever of wanting to be wanted
Even if it means ruin.

I make him violent. He makes me holy.
We make a church of scars.
We kneel and worship in bruises and silence.

Tell me that's not devotion. 
Tell me I don't deserve it.

I'll smile anyway—
Blood in my teeth,
Sweet as pomegranate.

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