Your hands stir my body like gasoline. They burn my hips, and carve into my snow pale skin.
Their burning qualities trace the shapes I should be, your clay to mold.
My body exists as your canvas, and you create something of me.
I am a play thing.

Your lips whisper along my neck, and your teeth bite down on my veins, careful not to mark.
I beg for pressure. I beg for broken skin,
But you always hold back.