We are a fucking car crash,
metal crunching bone,
gasoline in the air,
sparks spitting like venom in the gutter.
Your voice is the hiss of a lit match,
and I’m the kind of person
who doesn’t flinch at fire,
only leans in closer.

Do we hold each other,
or are we just gripping weapons
pressed to the skin so tight we can’t tell
where the blade ends
and the flesh begins?
I don’t think we ever learned the difference
between love and self-destruction.
Maybe there isn’t one.

When you look at me,
it’s like being gutted,
like you’re peeling my edges back
just to see if there’s anything soft inside.
Spoiler alert: there isn’t.
You knew that when you met me, though—
you kissed my jagged laughter,
sank into the wreckage of my grin.

You’re no better.
You’re a junkyard in human skin,
a haunted house I can’t stop fucking visiting,
every closet you open
spilling skeletons onto the floor.
I don’t even want to clean them up.
I just step over the bones
and pretend they’re furniture.

We fight like we’re trying to end the world.
Slammed doors, broken glass,
a tornado of “fuck you”s
spun into something that almost sounds holy.
Your rage tastes like copper in my mouth.
Mine’s tattooed into your scars.
No one wins.
We don’t even know what winning is.

And yet,
you’re in my veins like a rusted nail,
like poison that doesn’t kill, just worsens.
I could rip you out—
should rip you out—
but the infection feels like home now,
and I’ve forgotten how to live without the ache.