Mixed Signals

I don’t care if your sharp tongue
cuts into my skin
and makes me bleed.
In fact I’d prefer if you did.
Carve out red ribbons
so I can treasure our time together.
Look down
at me
like a ice queen perched
on your throne of black
and treat me coldly
even while your warm hands betray you
by constantly wandering.

Say I’m not cute
while begging for me to stay
with your glossy eyes
after your lips have kissed
one too many wine glasses.
Look, I’ll let you tie my hands
so you can rest easy
knowing that I can’t do anything
and that I can’t leave
even though you tied it
too loosely.

Ah, this must be what they call gap
moe.