And is it okay to crawl into bed, where my tangled limbs, and scarred skin lay waiting? Where, with my eyes closed tight, I told myself I wanted you to care. Where cold, lonely bodies tied themselves in knots over and over again.

And is it fair to make believe and pretend and act the way I should? When really deep inside, I knew it was far from what I felt. Because the fire that bred beneath my skin wasn't lust but shame.

And is it normal for your melancholy hands to wrap around my neck, where my quick bursts of breath became strained and shallow? Before my face was ground against the plush of sheets, darker than the future in sight.

And is it a lie if I go along with it all? If I make it seem as though my vocality is a sign of pleasure rather than immense pain. Though the only speaking up I do is grunts and moans and gasps.

And is it love if the only thing you wanted was my body? For your own escape, your version of bliss and peace. A thing i’d lost along the way.

And is it sweet if you turned down the tv a little but still kept it playing? So my words could blend and fade, even though they never came.