When the pawn

my one and holy, my one and lonely. and you take from my cup the grace of teenage sacrilege, but it's adrenaline-driven escapades and short-lived moments of blood rushing to my head that i kneel to. brashness and last-minute lies don't pierce through your soul the same way they do through mine. it is only through your lips that i am able to taste an upbringing built on bottlerocket bannisters and critically acclaimed vengeance. it's the same gentle hands made up of fingers tenderly cascading through my hair that possess callousness and carelessness only a man would be capable of... but that's to be expected when you've always held the world in your hands.