A Mutilation

My hips are riding higher and your fingers are gliding closer to the milky crescent of skin. You run your delicate fingertips over creamy white scar tissue quickly followed by your tongue. I am mutilator inside this body cradled against you; you cry at each scar you caused. A lifetime is traced out in every faded wound; every memory we have is etched here like a epic poem written in blood and flesh.

You say, "I remember this one. You screamed at me all night long and broke a glass against the kitchen floor. What were we fighting about? I can't remember."

Was it violet light that sparked my anger? Was I so caught up in my own mind that I slashed my arm with no understanding of what that would mean? Did the blood dripping down my hand keep my alive? I can't remember.

You slide your lips over each hard tissued-memory and mumble apologies against my skin. The scars hum at your touch; spark blunted emotions and jagged delusions inside my taxidermied heart. Have these scars reached my eyes; can you see this violence seeping out as I hold you against me? Is my love cast in violet light as my anger is?

Hold me tight against you so these scars can flow between us. They will start to inch from my skin to your skin and we will be like a marred monument to our own lives. Though our love is flawed it is ours to keep in this house of lover's mutilation wrapped in each others warm bodies and unending in our destructive devotion.