With him,
At the touch of my skin,
My blades dissolved.
Argumentative words
Turned foreign as soon as
My ears picked them up...
Fire was nothing about hurt,
Only herb-lighting, art-inducing
Heat.
My scars were kissed and cared for,
Made beautiful.
My poetry,
Rants of love and comfort...

No longer is my mind so clean...

Without him,
Razor edged peel my skin back.
Arguments drown me to be buried
in the easy-going sand that used to create me.
Fire perks my nerves as his
Sweet fingertips and lips once did...
My scars are ugly reflections of my
Lonely failures of life and love.
My poetry,
Well...this.