You show less shock than most when you finally see me naked.
Your fingers trace the fine white scars that map the progress of my trysts. You stay astride me, even when I draw the knife from under the pillow.
Maybe you will be the one.
I’ve always needed blood for that last rush: the wound blossoming cherry-red; the line of pain drawn across my mind; the tart metallic taste drowning my tongue.
But this cold-hearted lover, etching passion on my flesh, is no longer enough.”
You smile, take the blade from my hand, and begin our menagé à trois