Quitter

The Wrong Type of Love

Can this be your implicit demand for proof?

I want you to hit me. 

I want you to hurt me. 

I want your hands at the base of my neck. Red stinging marks climbing they're way up my skin like ivy on a storm pipe; I want my eyes to be burning with hatred by the time you're done with me. 

I want you to make me wish my life was over so I have a reason not to start it.

Author's Note

Bear with me lol