He burns, under my skin.
all three fucking layers;
physically, mentally and spiritually.
You want to play the guilt game? Well I can play it too.
You can’t keep wrapping silk around the wounds you caused.
You can’t cover up your harsh words with letters of love.
You can’t throw a pity party as your optimistic thoughts dance to their deaths.
You can’t sharpen your nails like spears then try to caress me.
And you can’t fix the paranoid love you ripped to shreds with your own insecurities.
And yea, I will happily keep reading Bukowski with a glass of red in my hand.