It starts off slowly,

A desire, an itch

But your hands are tied.

Its the hissing of sunlight against your skin

The crinkle of stepping on empty cans

The familiar tune behind the radio

And it's itching.

You've tasted the gold in his heart and now your tongue is stung with cold bitterness

And nothing hurts more than the disappointment of chipping your tooth on rock when you thought it'd be softer this time, after all your efforts

But all he left you with is the sour, metallic taste of blood that doesn't seem to wash off and the pathetic ache in your heart that bleach swears it can scrub off

It's more of a bruise, now

Dare I say, there's something beautiful behind the swirls of pink and blue

They're waging a war against each other but always cancel out into a dull purple

I'm learning how to start using personal pronouns in my writings, you tell them because you aren't quite ready to accept reality

Because it's like having all your bruises itch at once

But your hands are tied.

And he's holding the rope.