Murdering Hearts (For Breakfast)
If you became a hero, I’d be a villain just to clash against you. If you ever choose to be cymbals, I’d be drumsticks. I’ll rattle you, splash hard against the solid of your surface.
If you ever become a vampire, I’ll wander over to your home in the dead of night, nothing but broken crosses in my pockets. I’d put my heart into your hands, and let you suck me dry.
If you went out walking, I’d follow you around like a cloud of mosquitos, buzzing in your ears and supping on your bloods! I’d never be able to leave you alone, and I’d wind up flattened against the palm of your hand. I’d be the goo between whatever immovable object you, the unstoppable force, came into conflict with.
“It fucking hurts to love you; or at least, it should.”
You smile in that way that suggests that you don’t even notice that I’m here, and I don’t blame you. If I were you, I’d have trouble seeing a world outside myself. If I were you, I’d probably arm myself with guns and knives, and go out burning and raging against imperfections like mankind and all their shitty little societies.
Fingers on triggers, on pulses. Listening for bombblasts and secret omissions; the kind that lovers make late at night when they’re exhausted but still too fixated on each other to stop.
I’m still too fixated on you to stop.
I said it hurts to love you, but love isn’t a regular thing like pain.
Nah. Love comes when it wants to. You know what they say.
Love comes, in spurts.