Never knew I'd long so deeply for what hides in the bud of nightshade.

Over and over, I search for wounds dressed in makeup.
Nothing and everything, sublime, for broken vases call louder to me.
Don’t mistake this for fleeting love. I want your skeletons to speak.
Underneath your beauty, is there a madness, too?

Maybe I’m just drawn to people I think I can fix.
I keep asking where I belong in your story.
Somehow, I hope I’m the “right one” you speak of
Only, it hurts now to admit: I was never taught how to be right.