words
You tell me I feel like home,
but not that it's solely in name.
Your words are woven with lace--
delicate, flowery, light.
They coil and crease,
a nasty, distasteful undertone.
Rough edges scrape my knuckles,
bloody bruises bloom.
Malice nestled in every utterance.
I crack you open,
like the book you told me you were
but your words are written in invisible ink.
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