I don’t love you with roses,
never was the type for soft hands
or words that melt like sugar on the tongue.
I love you like a fist through drywall,
like whiskey burning down a raw throat,
like a car crash that leaves us laughing,
blood on our teeth, high on the wreckage.
You ain’t delicate, and neither am I.
We are spit and thunder,
kisses that taste like gasoline and bad decisions.
I trace constellations in your scars,
and you map out my sins with your fingertips,
dragging fire down my spine,
begging me to never be gentle.
Let the world call this poison,
say we’re nothing but a wildfire with no way out.
Let them watch us burn.
I will love you through the ash,
through the broken glass and the sirens,
through the nights we can’t breathe but won’t let go.
Because love like this ain’t made for happy endings —
it’s made for scars that spell out each other’s names.
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