I plan our break-up before we have our first kiss. It’s as if I am yearning for 
someone to hurt me before they love me. Whip out the chain and slash me 
across my face before you do anything else.  Let me plan how this ends, let 
me meticulously construct the ways in which we will crash. 
I will craft my heartbreak so precisely, that when it comes, I’ll bathe in my own
spill. You’ll wonder what I think about at night, and I’ll reply with nothing,
nothing other than how you will crack my skin and peel it off,
let the blood seep out and leave the mess all over the floor. 
Maybe this is why I am always running in the opposite direction
from anyone that puts their hand out to hold mine, in fear that their
touch will soon turn cold and I won’t know how to stop it from being