Freshly bitten lips
skin blooms pink again
tiny indentations
pupils breathing, expanding
fingers reach, grasp, *feel

The skin on your lips
is the type
of magical MacGuffin
that makes you believe
in enchanted forests
at midnight.
They swim
in the reddish blue, velvet mist.
And after all
isn't magic getting something for nothing?

I told you I dreamt
of plum colored butterfly wings.
You bared your teeth
in a warlock grin and leaned in
to kiss my fingertips.
You drew mystic symbols
on my bare shoulders
and you whispered spells in my ears,
softly.
I vaguely remember
the purple steam around us
before I was way up in the air.
And you said you wanted nothing
but to leave the mauve
lovebite on my hip in return.

It's not the hair on my head
It's only the dry center on my neck.

It's not that hate my skin
It's just what is deep inside it.

It's not painful really
It's extremely repetitive.

It's not a bad habit
It's a new hobby.

It's not a birth mark
It's more of a lovebite.

It's not that I can't stop
It's just that I won't stop.

It's not only my addiction
It's my mental condition.