by Hannah Pickering
your hands are not nearly as stained as your heart is.
how pitiful you are, with your bleeding organ.
cut up time and time again, but always going back.
you can’t resist it, can you?
the call of your lovers who are not yours.
you know they will never truly be yours, correct?
they will spend a few hours and like a thief in the night, slip back to their places in the morning.
it matters not how you wish to cry your love and devotion to them.
they would never give up what they have for anything you could ever give.
so continue on Harlequin.
keep going until your hands are stained with the same blood that flows from your heart.
your journey isn’t finished yet.