I don't know if I will ever be able to
describe you in the way I truly experience
you.
When I think of you, I lose the words.
I can only feel them. I know you aren't meant
for me.
I just want to be the red wine that stains
your pristinely virgin silk sheets.
The guilty pleasure of alcohol,
the unsolvable blemish on your person.
I want you to try and erase me.
I want you,
to try your very best,
and fail.
I need you to know how stretched and scathed
I am.
Because of you,
I can use my eyes like lenses and focus
on things directly before me
but still recognize the beauty in the blur
behind the subject.
Every purpose has pain.
What is the opportunity cost of me,
of a sip
of red wine?
I was once water,
but if water is birth
how do I relinquish responsibility of
your destruction?
For with all your purity,
your grace,
you will always be sin
to me.