Cutter

I would cut my wrists for you

if it meant

you would stop slicing through

your own flesh with a disposable pink razor.

If it meant you would hurt yourself

in anything less than the manner

in which you do,

so nonchalant

as you throw your head back

to let auburn curls

distract

from blood seeping through

your favorite

grey sweater.

Fits of giggles

escape your chapped lips

and I almost forget

you believe:

No one can love you.

I do.

I love you like no man can.

Because no man knows

the slow wretchedness

that consumes you

when you let him in.

Between rapid breaths

and graceful thrusts

and dirty words whispered

like they mean

romance

and passion

and truth,

into your very being he comes

and robs you without giving

and you tell him it means nothing.

Then he

takes his shot at heartbreak,

and you?

Turn away,

ingest poison

to combat the hollow

you’ve convinced yourself

holds no emptiness.

I do.

I would cut my wrists for you

if it meant

you might start bleeding.