Wrong Love

I pick you up and twist
a million ways, to make me happy.
My fingers cruel, my eyes greedy, lips parted—
Anticipation.
You crumble, a helpless smile.

You pick me up, a fragile bird
lips on cheek and breath on soul.
You hold me gently, I cannot feel
these whisper-fingers. You try but fail
to make me happy, a sad smile.

Lovely
mistakes. It’s what I am, not
what you are but somehow
we manage always
to be mistakes.

But should you
twist, to make me happy, I might
feel. And we might fall. And we’d be mistakes but
I’d be forsaken and you’d be mistaken and
(you’re no mistake).

You touch my heart like you’d touch
your own, but mine craves claws and yours
are soft, whisper-thin. I touch your heart like I’d
touch mine but yours bruises so easily.
My mistake.