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you don’t love me, but i don’t give a shit. the night ditches we stumble in all reek of the bodies i’m hiding. i got plenty of skeletons and closet ghosts and memories of hands trapped around my throat.

you don’t love me. you like watching me choke. you like the buck-sway of hipbones. you like my hands tied to your bedposts. you like the bruises and the sweat and the black harness yolk. 

you don’t love me but your palms are a good enough distraction and with your skin between my teeth and our lips locked and me screaming out every breath you steal: there’s no room here for me to tell you how i feel.

you don’t love me, but i don’t give a shit. when i get undressed, at least you act like it.

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