The worst kind of love is when you love
through the disgusting—
when you’re bad for each other
and you know it
and you keep on loving
and it tears you apart.
The worst is when you can’t get enough of it.
You’re running to their mouth
like you’re looking for a fix;
you promise yourself,
just one last time.
But the last time becomes the next time
and you wear their bruises
in a ring around your neck,
and tell yourself it’s poetic
to wear hickeys like a hanging.
You try to shake them from your bones,
but they’ve soaked into the marrow,
made sponges of your femurs.
Your legs give out at the knees
and you call it love.
They say the warning sign
is when you think you need one another.
They say that’s where it starts.
But you’ve never loved by halves
and you don’t know how to stop.
The worst is when you lose yourself loving
but you have always loved that way
and you don’t think there’s anything
you can do about it.