A poem about intense love.

You tasted like escape,
like glitter spilled on the floor
after midnight.
I swore you were art,
but maybe you were just the mess
I didn’t want to clean up.

We called it love,
but it was really
two broken things
dancing on glass.
You lit me up in the highs,
and left me choking in the lows.

I liked us better in the night
when the shadows hid the cracks,
and I could pretend your hands
meant safety, not survival.

But daylight came,
and so did the silence.
And all I could hear
was the echo of lies
I kept painting as truth.

You were my vampire
not the kind with fangs,
but the kind that drains
every part of you,
until you don’t know
whose reflection
you’re staring at anymore.

Still,
I miss the chaos,
the fire, the ruin
because sometimes,
broken feels better
than empty.