If only you knew, my love, a fire burns my soul, turning it black as the kohl in your eyes.
Sometimes she gets really quiet because she can’t drown screams in her head.
She gets really quiet so she can listen instead.
Break a painters heart and he’ll immortalise you with his paintbrush.
But the edges of a writers broken heart are too sharp and her pen is a weapon that slays.
I long for the burn that your fingers left in my skin and the poison that your lips left on mine.
When you muse on me, I’m vulnerable in ways; you’ll never know.
It’s as if someone finally took a moment to see what makes me; to see more than I show.
We could’ve had love they wrote novels about. The kind that burned everything in it wake; an all-consuming, terrifying yet beautiful love.
It’s a shame that all we are is a memory.
She is brave. The bravest I know. Because she feels everything so deeply that it soaks into her skin and runs through her veins.
Love consumes her and hurt becomes her.
Tell me, how many have that kind of courage..