Your lips ignite my skin,
Your tongue a flame scorching fine porcelain.
Fingertips trace the curves and lines of my body,
Like writing a book.
Each word delicately placed,
Piecing together a masterpiece.
Hands gentle as a butterfly but the sting of your bite
Burns like the taste of tequila.
Your poison I could swallow down,
Let it drip down my throat like honey and warm my aching heart.
Lips swirl above my pulse,
It reminds me I'm alive.
Reminding me that I am real,
But you are not.
Reminding me the traces of your touch still linger,
Feeling as real as the windy breeze but it hurts as bad as a bee sting.
This reminds me that you are a ghost,
Wallowing in my story.
Hands popping and crackling with rage to get your hands on my throat,
To choke the life out of me/the voice.
It would remind me of what living on the edge felt like,
Leaving the possibility of your death in someone else’s hand.
Your touch reminds me of the many nights I spent wrapped up in a sea of sheets,
Trying to stain the smell of lavender detergent into my skin.
Imprint the scent to mask yours that you left,
Playing classical music until it repeated like a mantra in my head to get the whispers of your words out.
Scrubbing my skin raw, removing the feel of your touch.
Freeing, this reminds me of freeing myself from the bindings you attached.
Ones that scraped my skin,
Detached it from the bone.
Like my mind from my body,
Slow aching torture.
One that hurt but makes me love the hurt even more.
