Kissing With Knives Out

everytime we kissed,
you sealed it with "you will be loved"

and so I licked the knife
with the tip of my tongue,
tasting the traces of love

and swallowed guilt with an ounce of blood,
but it doesn't matter,
it doesn't matter if it's love.

i felt belonging in the bloodshed as we fucked,
that's the only time, i felt I belonged to be touched

so i opened my legs,
for you to be able to love me
the best way you know,
the only way I was told.

i bled,
my lips bruised,
my neck purple
and breaths, scared.

but does it matter?
if it is loving.

left stranded in a car,
or during a pregnancy scare.

should it matter
if you cut me 
but say that's love?

sealing lies with my lips,
sewing them with fits.

"why am I here?"
"why don't I leave"

repeated repressed thoughts
and anguish.

finally kissing you goodbye,

wishpering,
"you can be loved,
you would be loved,
only by someone who never knew love."