I’m sick of writing about how other people make me feel

Like they have a hold over my head and heart and worst of all my words

They ruin me in prospect of becoming a page or a line

They spew lines of romance to manipulate my border

They charm their way over my wall

To steal my time and my body away from me without remorse

Now I know every kiss is a lie

And every line is a guess at a password

They want to crawl under my skin and under my covers, to leave scars of distrust

Sticking to my words and memory

Dark though it may be

They want to see if they can smudge their way into my world

The vanity of I was here carved into my heart

The sick pride of receiving a line in my book

Dedicated to the hurt that they caused

My scars and words are then not my own

But graffiti on my pages

From the ones I’d rather forget


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