Green beetle

 

When you come home exhausted, all you want is rest.
I wanted something that felt like that. Somewhere you could finally let go when you were with me.

But with all these men, I can never lower my guard.
You never know where the knife will come from.

With you it’s worse. Sometimes I feel like I could surrender, like I could truly be myself beside you, but there are too many scars. I never know when you’ll reopen the wound again.
You don’t lie to me you warn me plainly, like a brightly colored poisonous insect. Yet sometimes you seem so harmless.
I try to shield you in my palms from the rain, forgetting that you are venomous.

And then the poison spreads, and I’m intoxicated all over again.
And you look at me as if to say:
I told you so.

“Don’t open that door.”
I already warned you.

I could crush you in my hands, but I could never kill something so small and beautiful.

I’m still trying to figure out whether you use it against me, or if you’re simply unaware of it.
In your own eyes you are enormous a gangster, untouchable.
But I see you for what you are: a little green beetle.

The light glimmers against your shell, and Travis Scott loops once more in the background, always the same song: an interlude.

You walk across my fingers. Sometimes you fly far away, only to land beside me again.
And I no longer know which hurts more.