The heat from your hands compared to scorched ember pressing, digging, into my young flesh, held for viciously long cycles marked by the unforgiving ticking of time, mocking the unshed tears in my wide eyes.

My skin protested, screaming with notes of pain tinged with fear, not understanding how such warm, comforting hands could leave such agony.

You burned your engraving into my complexion, once pure before your disfiguring handling.

The scars you left behind scabbed oh so painfully, ripping open with the slightest of motions, creating gaping lacerations unable to truly heal.

These marks remain; a reminder of your torment to not only my skin, but the wounding of my soul.

A reminiscence of the trauma you caused me, I pick at these damaged pits, discontinuing their progress, permanently discolored my once creamy pigmentation and denying the return of my ivory coloring.

The heat of your hands left your mark on me.