Toxic

                                    

                                          
And every night they would fight as if their world was ending, and he would pull and she would push him away, hitting him and cursing for it didn't matter if he made her happy at times because every second mattered. 
                          
And he would slap her and she would stagger back and crash against the wall, bruises on her body that he would kiss and cherish in the mornings but it didn't matter for she would crawl back to the hole of non-existence. 
                          
And she would sob and he would try to keep her in his arms, whispering apologies to the skin of her neck but it didn't matter because he would do the same the next night, creating art on her body, art she would hate and love for years after what they had had ended. 
                          
And she would push him away, crying to let her go but he would ignore her and hold her next to the beating of his heart but it didn't matter because the only sound she would hear was the pumping of blood in her ears. 
                          
And he would kiss her fiercely to make her remember the good times and forget the bad and she would kiss him back, clutching at him for he was the only thing that mattered. 
                          
And every morning she would wake up with a hand holding her near him and she would smile before weeping the smudged mascara under her eyes from her last night's crying and breaking. For it didn't matter because he would tighten his hold on her, kissing her hair and eyes and forehead, erasing the scars he caused the previous nights. 
                          
And every night he would push and she would pull back again, for it didn't matter because they were both trapped in their illusion of toxic love, which was nothing more than red bruises and feather-like kisses on the back of each other's neck.