Twisted.

I'm already sorry for writing
This is just how I process things
The knife sits presently in between my ribs
Every now and again it twists
And I can feel the blade in my skin
I can hear the constant insisting
That I am within a boundary I cannot leave
And I haven't been here before
I've made my mistakes sure
But this just doesn't feel wrong to me
And I can't even begin to try to explain that feeling
But I don't want to be a thief
I don't want to be brief
I don't want you to feel like I'm taking something from you
I want you to know
That my desire isn't physical
That this drive in me isn't typical
I'm not a person who takes things that don't belong to me
And it's unsettling
To think that you believe me to be destructive
That you feel captive
Instead of captivated
And my writing has been slated
Written by someone who will reduce you to gravel
Who will unravel
All of the work you've done to grow
And it fills me with sorrow
That you think I see you as someone to be borrowed
And not kept
I like to think I am adept
At knowing where I stand
But I don't even have a strand of
Understanding
I would never do anything without your permission 
Nor do I pray for your submission
I want you to be strong in your conviction
That you feel something
Too.
All I know
Is that there is a stone
That settles in my stomach
When you say that I've wreaked havoc
On your peace of mind
And I don't mind that it was unkind
Because you were being honest
And that is my greatest
Plea
Is that if I'm really doing more harm than good
I hope you'll rid yourself of me.

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