We Often Bleed When Cut

Persistence is a virtue for the bleeding hearts of the wicked.

Fostered by an undiluted love.

The wretched pour their souls out to you, stretched and splayed.

A mollycoddle saved. Intention lacks the sharpest luster.

Decision is weak.

Your burden, my ox.

Pulling the yoke of pure infatuation and draining the blood of my indiscretions.

I turn to you, to look my past in the eye and learn to like it. To hold it dear.

I can’t bequeath the subtle hope of your abandon, but I can render the false calamity of my waking angst that yearns for you.

Waddle it up and caress the veins that waste away the nutrition.

I burn in your stead.

You offer up no indignity, while sparing what little hope you bring.

Justice is far from the point of regard.

I will spend just however much I take and give you the leftover, soaked in spoiled rebellion and acknowledged selfishness.

I never claimed to want you more, just enough to make it hurt.