it was a sunday when she whispered oh-so quietly about china plates and your shattered kettle. it wasn’t long until she was screaming broken sentences at you through the shards of glistening glass along the kitchens linoleum, with her fingers curled into fists of flesh and iced glares. you couldn’t get your apologies out quick enough.

you always admired the way her spine never cracked when your nails scraped across her broken flesh – it wasn’t your fault that you brought love in a cardboard box. that you thought starved ribs were pretty, that you only thought she was beautiful when the nightmares overtook her elm limbs. and that you only liked freckles when she was choking through the holes in her lungs. you always liked mercy.

she locked your heart up with a studded belt, you told her to stop being arrogant and she called you names offensive in languages that never existed. it took a whole seven seconds before her fingers were in your hair and your hands were under her shirt and you were both panting in time with the white noise. she smelt like cinnamon and soap and sand – like home and old horror movies. it took eight seconds for you to remember why you gave her your heart in the first place.

the static from the out of tune radio hummed the tune of your death. of your fingers diving between the sea of veins under her tan flesh to the hidden sinew where the rotting childish hopes and decayed teeth lived in harmony. faux knuckles against false cheer, and she was running again. from the monsters with knotted knees and broken smiles. and you too.

it was another sunday when she dragged you into the kitchen – the radio unbearably empty as she looped your bodies together like a jigsaw puzzle with a few too many pieces. you were heat covered in flesh and lust lost in lips. and you danced across the faded linoleum like twirls of smoke in a dust storm.

there was love carved into your wrists, in words and in scars.