My heart drags some days,
a sodden thing,
heavy as water-logged wood.
My loveβ
I swear I tried to keep it light for you,
but it swells,
soaks through my dress,
bleeds rust into the seams.
I wake with salt on my lips,
half-dreaming Iβve drowned in your hands.
Every breath tastes of iron.
You call me βangel”,
but I am not clean.
I am not gentle.
Even when I hold you,
itβs as though Iβm clutching a thorn crown to my chest.
But please, stay.
Stay in this sickness with me.
Let my wretched heart lean on you,
let it press its weight into your hands,
and love meβ
love me still,
though I am fire and ruin,
and at times,
all the sweetness has been burnt away.
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