a better slave.

i write on my arms and legs with coloured markers because my skin aches for your touch. maybe poetry is its own form of self harm because i watch myself bleed in all these beautiful colours and i can't really tell if it hurts lesser than a knife or all too much more. maybe it's both. i ache for the blade that isn't there, i ache for the marks you once left on my skin because it meant i was yours. over time you left many others on my thighs and my wrists and i felt prettier still. there was something so carnal about the way you sculpted my body, something so exciting about having your hands adorn me. sometimes love is the act of destroying oneself in the most beautiful ways possibly imaginable and i was willing to do so much more if it meant i could belong.