a wispy quiver

keep the feather touch lingering on my palms

i'm not used to a love that's frail–

ive been held with bloody hands,

constant eggshells laid,

for me love's an arcade.

a girl like me,

accustomed to,

love which is violent,

kind of that mars,

causes splurges and scars.

i've been held with bloody hands,

the blood resides in the etches of my skin,

intricately orchestrated

lies in threads of my heart,

the faded crimson hue,

which lingers too

and for, my lips they've been tainted

red, bloody red.

sort of, that ceases to exist

brutally, like every breath.

let that touch linger, my love.

i'm not used to a love that's frail-

i've been raised with bloody hands,

and walls that cage.

for me love's a rampage.

don't believe my eyes, they lie.

or my words,

for they are hymns of deceit,

girls like me,

are acquainted with

a kind of love

that imprisons and traps

which quivers beseeching.

a love that chokes and liberates,

the ruination–an emblem.

we're maddened girls,

lost in a haze,

for us there's no hope.

it's rather too late,

but only a hankering hunger

to be held this gently,

this, gently.