The pain from my heart radiates to my wrists
and suddenly I’m cramped with the awfully foul sensation
of being unable to release the poison in my veins.
You run through me like venom, quickly shutting down my outlets
and I hate you for turning me into some sad, pathetic, corpse.
If I were to go back, I would have sucked the venom out before I let it sit,
but I was cowardly enough to think you were injecting into me, love, and nothing less.
I would never have dreamed of hurting you, but that was the first thing on your mind.
Knowing what I know now, I will never let someone so poisonous get close enough to kiss me
because, Lord, it is so easy to mistake the devil for an angel.
Some people will always be made to inject the venom,
others to suffer as it slowly shuts you down.
You will always be the poison in my veins, the blackened heart that turned so cold that I don’t think it’ll ever work right again.
But regardless of my pain, I will always always be a victim to venom,
taking the hurt and the pain and writing with stiff wrists.
Us writers will always be victims,
to venom, to pain, to love.
Not even being selfless enough to kill, but cruel enough to slowly weaken,
forever living in my veins;
Victim to venom