Kiss me with your lips—never your heart. 

Our stolen kisses, borrowed time, I never needed anything more. 

I never deserved anything more. 

“I love you,” I would say too soon as shattered bottles would scrape my face.

He wasn’t thinking. He was drinking. He loved me.

We were both sorry, weren’t we? 

I was sorry for myself. 

He was sorry. I looked him in the eyes. 

An abuser. A liar. A first love.

Hidden moments behind burgundy drapes, unable to tell what stung. 

My bruises exploded, expanding. Fire, I could smell fire. 

But I couldn’t run, the flames smelt too good, and the ash was like glitter.

Pretty, pretty glitter. 

Stains on my cheeks were like blush. I loved makeup. 

Why did I use makeup to cover my bruises?

Kiss the pain. 

I dropped to my knees, scraping my fingers against his jeans to beg.

Kiss the pain with your own pain. 

Brush your hair against my cheek.

I’ll kiss you back because your beard is scraping against my skin like a razor. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Manipulation would say. 

“You didn’t see anything,” Anger would say. 

“Leave me!” Guilt would say. 

A pool was swirling around me, a bright, bright shiny red pool. 

Lips would close into me, forcing me down deeper into the pool, 

sinking me with everything but love. 

A home he built and trapped me in.

A smile that would never reach his eyes. 

A woman that would never reach his heart. 

A pair of lips that would crash down as an apology.  

Replace pain with pain because I never deserved your heart.