My first kiss was not a fairytale...

It was neither soft nor gentle,
no candelight, nor whispered promises-
just burning rage,
and violence in chains, now broken.

It did not come bearing roses,
nor with a heart filled.
My first kiss was not for love,
It was neither warm nor sweet.

Instead...

It tasted like iron,
a taste of broken pride.
Dripping with embering red,
not from lips,
But from a place where scars cannot hide.

It taught me nothing of love-
only the language of cruelty.
And yet,
Some part of me still remembers it
as something intimate.
Something real.

Not every kiss leaves you wanting more.
Some just leave a scar.