you cover up your fragile skin, butterfly rashes that snake their way down your ribs, paper-thin and streaked with veins, you call your blood ‘parasite.’
if you were to be believed, you thought that meant that your pain was to be performed. to not touch you was a punishment, but still, you question her insistence to gnaw at your skin.
bruises that are pretty, insisted upon you like the ******* leeches she promises will purge your blood, your parasite. “Oh, how lovely it is to be owned.”
there was nothing to be said for teeth, except “please,” silent stop strangled under your tongue, but there is something to be said for this warmth, now, the first ‘now’ that was never ‘then.’
you do not taste blood when they kiss you. parasitic blooms on the fragile, flaking skin of your throat heal, slowly, when let to rest under the quiet askance of trust.
maybe that’s what this is. lately, you’ve learned that you do not enjoy being bitten, what you loved was giving blood. lately, you’ve learned that there really are people who will not ask you to bleed.