To carve your name into my skin
with metallic black ink
would be an ideal curse, because
I think you might follow the loops,
the curves,
every ridge and every twist
with precious fingers
designed to chill me to the bone
(and simultaneously warm my soul).
My heart is volcanic
(but only for you),
in the way that it remains perpetually chilled,
dead,
uninteresting,
until sparked by the tremor of your presence,
after which it never stops overflowing with heat
and bringing unique destruction to everyone nearby.

Good thing you like chaos.