Love is an open wound, you never know where the blood will go. It could proceed to your head and leave you pondering on every little thing that’s wrong with you. Or get on your heart and have you do things that you never preserved imaginable. The strangest part of the whole thing is it’s so easy to bleed, letting everything inside you spill out. I remember the first time you cut me open, there could never be enough bandages and wrapping to ever save me. You dug into me so deeply and twisted, your hellhound knife straight inside, never once skipping a beat. Then you whispered me such simple fantasies that I promised myself they would come true, yet I feel that the whole time you spoke quietly I tried even harder to listen and ignored my own thoughts. They screamed at me to run but my feet where so grounded by your lies that I would never knew how to walk by myself. Then you really cut; bleed me dry so I couldn't do anything. I laid on floor for hours begging, trying to get out of the escapade you sent me on. But the worst part of it all, the worst god damn part is that I would do this all over again just to have you. Feel the bruises on my skin one more time and wake up next to your sleepy eyes watching me so I couldn't escape. The last cut I take now is over your initials on my shoulder and the first stab you took is now covered by another.