The Blood spilt across my split bottom lip

Looks a little bit like lipstick,

And not at all like the divinity I set out to find.

This

Is not the poem

I wanted to Write;

But rather,

The poem that wanted me

To write it.

I remember running, that night,

And correct me if I’m wrong,

But I am pretty sure I was running away;

I remember tripping

And falling

Over the knife’s edge of everyone else’s expectations.

That

Is how I got this scar;

I wear it proudly.

Here, now,

You kissing me just to taste the blood on my lips;

Unholy thoughts the star of the night,

This

Is the closest I will ever come

To being whole.