I am fifteen and I learn that love is a boy with needle marks in his skin.
He asks me to float away with him. Away from his father who beats his mother.
somewhere without misplaced anger or drug tests.
He does not know my last name. He tells me he loves me anyway.
I woke up bruised and bloody.
I am seventeen and learn that love is a boy who screams at his mother.
He throws chairs and punches holes in drywall.
He asks me to run away with him.
Somewhere without burnt breakfast or college visits.
He refuses to read my writing. I go anyway.
I woke up bruised and bloody.
I am nineteen and I learn that love is a boy who looks like everything you’ve ever wanted.
He drinks too much whiskey and forgets we are together.
He writes poems about my lips tasting like forgiveness,
and speaks of Bukowski like the father he never had.
He asks me to leave with him, for good.
Somewhere without depression. It rains Prozac.
He changed his mind while I packed. I went anyway.
I am still bruised and bloody.
I am twenty and learning that love will never come from boys with bruised fingers or broken hearts.
I drink warm wine and tell myself I am okay.
I am okay.
This author chose to remain anonymous.
Bloody Knuckles II by dchudzyn