Love is sharp, and my skin gives so easy.

 

You asked me about love. I told you everything wrong, because it felt like the only right answer.

 

Like the way I can't stop bleeding, until I quietly start to cling for life.

 

I only write when I'm losing sense, or trying to find it again. I can't even tell the difference anymore, like how I mistook loving someone for really living.

 

I wanted to live. 

 

You wanted poetry.

I handed you a lit cigarette and told you to smoke it. The way it slowly burns until you start to want more and more. It's killing you.

 

Isn't that what love feels like sometimes? A soft and slow urge to keep on breathing.

 

What you call dying, I call living. Love is sharp, and it isn't smart.