I cannot be curbed, I cannot be tamed,
I cannot adopt moderation, or restraint.
My appetites are rampant,
And my passions wreak havoc like a violent summer storm.
Do not try to temper my lusts, or divert my inclinations,
For you will fail.
I will not have it said, that I merely existed.
Life is delicious, love is everything,
Why would you seek, therefore, to dampen your desires?
There is much to adore, there is much to abhor,
And I would not have it any other way.

I have a scar on the bottom of my left thumb.
I got it
The day after you broke my heart the second time.
I was trying to open something with a knife
And it slipped.
It went straight in
Point first
Right at the joint between my thumb and the pad of my hand
That fleshy spot that is always stretching and wrinkling.
I was shocked at first- it went in deep
Almost two inches.
I suppose, maybe, I should have gotten stitches.
But what I did instead was pull the point out
pop
It made a small sound
Like I was unstopping a tiny bottle of wine.
In fact the hole in my hand
Remained clean and white and surprised
For a moment
Startled, I think, by its own existence.
And then it caught up to itself all at once
And bubbled up thick red blood
Faster than I expected it to.
Beads of it slid down my fingers.
Soon my hand was slick with it
Shaking
And I was still fascinated, transfixed,
Slow.
When the first drop hit the carpet
I figured I should go into the bathroom and let the tiles take the stains.
On the way there the world tilted a little
Since now I held in my cupped hand a small pool of red.
I resented my body's need for its own blood.
Its fragility.
It is so needy and so frail
And I have no patience for it.
On my knees on the smooth cold white floor
And then with my cheek pressed against it
To calm the fever of "shock"
I hated that my shell could steal my will.
I stood again in a moment
Having left a smudge on the floor
And my hand dripped
pat pat pat
Onto the tiles.
The smoothness of my own blood surprised me-
Its tendency to slip away and stand in pools.
Again I looked for a moment
And then ran my hand beneath the faucet
And marveled at the way the water was instantly crimson.
It kept running and running down the drain
And after a while I realized that it was unlikely to stop.
Lifting my now white hand
I peered at it
And there was the hole in it-
A perfect slit, deep and clean and filling up with dark sticky red fluid.
It overflowed again and I did my best to wrap it in bandages.
The bathroom looked like a ****** scene.
Who knew my hands
Held so much?
Who knew we were so easily punctured and drained?
It took a long time to heal.
I kept ripping it open by accident over and over
Because of its prime location in the crease of my hand.
It was weeks, really, before it actually did close.
And weeks more
Before it finally became less of an angry red
And more of a thick, shiny pinkish white.
It is raised.
It still hurts sometimes, even though it has been months healed.
I rather like it.
I like the gory proof of what I went through when you walked away.
It's just a small reminder,
A little white ridge and a tightness on my skin
But
Well
They say you don't know anything
Quite so well as the look of your own hands
And
I think it is appropriate that the landscape of mine
Was forever changed
When you left.

Constellations of broken blood vessels
Create a galaxy on my fair skin
The solar system that is my body
Becomes tainted by you.
Shades of purple and red change
To yellow and green;
An aurora borealis of lust.

Honey, I don't even ******* know.
What the hell is a crush supposed to be anyway?
  
Sweet warmth filling up my soul?
A skipped heartbeat with a mere touch to the shoulders?
Afraid to look too long in fear of falling into fascination with the way  their eyelids touch their cheek?

I don't even know.
I don't want to know.

I'm the worst sort of lover.
I don't even like people.
I mean, I love people, but not PEOPLE.

Besides, why would anyone like me back?

Miss Congeniality, not Miss Sexuality
I don't- don't know how to- how to-
****.
I can ******* swear just fine, but I can't even say-

See? What's there to like?

I don't know what love feels like.
Does everyone just...know?

I'm not pretty.

It's not that I don't know what to say.
I just don't know if I believe it

Deserve it.
(Hypocrite).


"No, not right now." (Smile, **** it)


Honey, I don't crush.
I fall.