he used to stroke my hair. we would be lying there veiled from the world and he would stroke my hair. softly and intimately.
looking back, what he was really doing was slowly scratching away something from me. my heart? my dignity? my hope?
innocence was leaking from my pores. naivety gushing from my eyes. releasing a pheromone that only predators can smell.  
he was so soft. so warm. a short one sided love affair with a man with poison on his lips. they tasted like home.