Wound Upon Wound

I've got fire in my veins from the venom or the heroin, a scalding rush of fluid searing holes in my soft tissue. I've got the smell of dozens, of scores of bodies in my skin. The taste of hundreds of mouths in my own. There are trails left by wandering fingers in my flesh, deep purple bruises and livid red tears that never seem to heal despite the pain eventually fading. They're tender to the touch, but even the memories of where those old wounds came from have vanished. There's a bite mark beneath my left shoulder. A slender thing, despite the welts that perfectly trace the imprints of teeth sunk into me. I wonder, occasionally, where it came from.

Its all that way, little scents and faded scars, the bits and pieces people have left behind. Mementos that I've long since forgotten.

I take her most nights. Rarely does she surrender to me easily. I find that I relish that feeling, the challenge. Conquests have never been difficult to come by. Just this once, it is refreshing to find someone with a little fight in her. A little bit of steel in her spine. A little cynicism for the world of flesh and romance. Too many of these little birds have thought to solve all their problems in my arms. I'm not into saving. I'm no messianic lover. I'm destruction in all its glroy, wrath in all its power. I will use them and cast them aside before they can do the same to me.

I forget to avoid being haunted. The ghosts of all those old loves would follow me, weeping or shouting or stabbing at me until I shook with fear or despair or disdain. Until I shrieked in the night and clawed out my eyes. It would all  be very Shakespearean. Unrequited love only has its place in sonnets and the yellowed pages written by dead men.

If I seem to be made of glass, I apologize. I'm more constructed of knives and razors, of poison and plagues. I shatter like porcelain and reassemble like liquid steel. Sharper with each thrust. Harder with each blow. Stronger with each life I take in my palms and crush.

What I mean to say is simply don't fall for me. For what I can give you or, as rare as it occurs, who I am. Because I will devour you. Your steel and your cynicism won't protect you. Surrendering to me will not spare you. I'll spit the teeth and the shards of bone out and leave them behind. The undesirable things, the indigestible. The rest will travel in my guts until I've consumed it.

Then I'll forget you, save for the wounds you leave behind.

In time, even those will fade.

Deviantly Yours,
-S.R.