a love that will never be Love

You held my face in your hands and kept asking me what was wrong and I couldn't speak because my words have always come with a bitter price.

So I just look into your eyes and think about how they are the colour of my morning coffee and how I despise my own eyes for reminding me of my tar black soul.

You're telling me to breathe and your forehead is against mine now and I want to tell you how you feel like water being splashed over my burning skin.

But I couldn't speak because my words have always come with a bitter price.


To speak is to hand someone a knife that I cannot protect my heart against. To speak is to love and I am not allowed to love you.

So I don't speak, I don't hand you the knife, I don't let myself trust you with my words, I don't let myself love you.

But I let your hands stitch together the gaping wounds on my skin and I let you quiet the voices screaming in my head and I let you memorise every curve of my body again. 


This is a love that will never be Love.


But I tell myself I'm okay with it. I convince myself I won't beg for it to last just a little longer because I already know it won't. I promise myself that the voice in my head is a liar for telling me over and over that I will never feel this way with anyone else. It's a fleeting thing, I tell myself, I will find it again. But looking into your eyes, I'm not so sure anymore. Will I find this, feel this again?  

My heart beats faster every time you touch me and yet my soul is calm. It's not like this with anyone else. It's not this easy with anyone else. My skin has never not burnt at a foreign touch. But every touch of yours feels like a shot of oxygen to my lungs after trying years and years to keep myself from drowning.

Your fingers are wrapped around my neck and this is the safest I've ever felt.


This is a love that will never be Love.

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