hand-made scars

I'm grateful that you're torn wide open.

There's something tangible there: a memory, a lesson . . . deep emotion. As the blood dries, I watch your metamorphosis with an illogical, idyllic curiosity. Knowing the progression of proper healing and acknowledging that I make no provisions for this propriety, I still cock my head to the side and furrow my brow as I watch you mutate, disfigure . . . cry for my compassion.

I feel great pain of course, but how else to know this pleasure?

Touching you, I shamefully delight in how wrong you become. In my mind I reach back to what I may have done for your betterment, and there it's revealed to me the distasteful possibility of being robbed of these moments.

:In the heights of obsession, I go so far as to search for where I may aggravate you most while causing the least regression.

. . .

Somewhat improbably, I would like for there to be an end, but please . . . not just yet.

Not just yet.

I'm not done.

You're so beautiful . . . .

Perhaps now you'll be with me for some time?

. . .

At some point I'll most likely ask you to leave.