Wrists Are Made For Love
Who says that bracelets and slits can’t make love on my wrists?
Show me show glass confections and bedroom afflictions and tell me metal doesn’t make a beautiful accessory
Why can’t she write love on my arms?
They are the bracelets she gave me hiding the blades she lent me
Who says that love and sin can’t crawl beneath my skin?
Show me contorted biopsies and x-rayed perversion and tell me results of angelic infildelity
Why can’t she be my confessional?
They are the sins she whispered to me masking the love she cooed to me
Who says collarbones and thighs can’t reach for my skies?
Show me winged corruption and clouded starvation and tell me cockpits are stuffed with uncalculated weight gain
Why can’t I be perfect for her?
They are the collarbones she kissed caressing the thighs she missed
Who says wrists are not made for love?
Show me mutilated perfection and romantic addiction and tell me Shakespeare wouldn’t find it beautiful
Why can’t you see that she loves me?
I wear her heart on my sleeves covering the wrists that she made bleed
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