You told me it was the first time you fell in love with a woman.
You didn't know much about love and softness but bought flowers and wrote me a letter.
You signed, Jack the Ripper.
Then you started cutting my skin with your sharpened words, you pulled my organs off my body to be closer to me, and then tried to erase your mistakes with little stitches and a kiss goodnight,
just give me the shovel and let me sleep.
I would tell you "It is not you, it is me".
You see, my love is fictional. I liked the idea of you, but your knife is too real and my skin isn't a hardcover, it is the fragile pages of a book.
And the ink still reminds me the color of your eyes, but I can't seem to recognize you with all the blood. And we do use the same alphabet, but I don't understand the language you're speaking, my ears are ringing, my vision is blur.
I am trying to run away, trying to find my way though this map of words, but I am lost in our stories.
We don't belong to the fairy tale bookshelf, honey,
we are a curse in the wrong section.