And for what felt like an epoch I was malnourished.
The hunger of the heart roared and puncture wounds were satiating.
I licked blood off knives, prayed for salvation, and neglected understanding.
Common interest was not germane.
I cared not for the benign.
“If love be rough with you be rough with love”
and that I was.
Wounds were powerless to scab-
the thrill came from the picking.
These days I wake up in your arms,
the sun glinting through my window panels.
I scratch your back and you scratch mine.
You mean to tell me it could have always been this way?
Love comes to those who wait.
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