In My Veins

“You would have saved me?” I ask, my shoulders pulled hesitant. Scared, like an over-beaten animal, caged again, although my words are pleading like a loving lapping tongue.

“I would have died trying.” She says.

I taste the sugar on my lips, cold. Like cough medicine- nurturing but not numbing. So I take to nursing my wounds in a desert wine I could rummage from the cabinets, while the music in my headphones deafens- I beg, at least, that it kills whatever cells house your touch, taste, smell..

"I will do better. I promise." "I am in therapy for you." "Give me a chance.'

I offered the chance to my phone, that you never called. That you left me waiting for weeks on. That you chastised me upon. Yet, you beg. And when I do indulge- when I do love you, there is something missing. On the tip of my tongue. Perhaps the solid foundation, or your genuine interest. It is dulled sometimes, by the desert wine or a bad day when I seek you out. You promise to visit, though you will pretend you don't know me the following day. You make me a playlist, although it is not songs I enjoy.

You want me without reason. Without knowing me. Because you are lonely. And when you asked, would I save you.

I answered in truth.