Laughter and Blood

To be in love with you, I cannot imagine.

For I would have to sacrifice half a billion people for it to work,

though the blood would be little for the price of your laughter.

Your family for they would never like me,

the people that made you feel as though it would impede you in life,

the man perfect for you in every way but the ways only I could feel—

in the tallest lick of flames and warm scent of vanilla— he would also have to go though I assume he must be good, if he earned you.

I stand tall, my bleeding heart aching beneath the flimsy cover of my shirt, and wait.

You hit. You glimpse with the back of your hand. Your words caress. Your eyes hold.

I will not push, and I will not lay my sword. But if you so should choose to press my wrist, I have no bother in lowering to my knees.

Your blood, my blood, their laughter.