I pull needles from my skin and resew stitches that have begun to break. The water runs clear from the spigot over me washing inside my scars and fingerprints and into my ears. There it can sear away the filth that has been left in my mind rotting away at me until it falls in yellow puss rivulets to the tiled floor. The tiles, once white, are now green with mildew fed from the fetid water and decorated with thick rusted needles. He left. Fine he left. Said it was my fault. I agreed. But only to him. I can’t blame myself. There was more to it than that. So much more. But that’s the way it goes. He’s over and done with me and I sit here rotting. Waiting for the scar tissue around the hole in my mind (where all of the things I believed about him have been distorted, warped, changed and ripped out) to harden. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints.. My somewhat cold hands gave you a shiver. I slipped the shirt off your shoulders and dropped it to the floor next to our feet. Moving my hands up your bare chest, I love the fact that you wax. Feeling the smooth skin against mine is the greatest feeling in the world. I took a few moments moving my hands up and down your pecs then your biceps finally your abs. I could feel you tense up as I lightly ran my fingernails along your skin. I kissed your shoulder then your neck making you sigh. When I got up to your ear, I whispered, “Go sit on the bed.” You moved from my reach to do as you were told. Walking over to the bed, stood in front of you between your legs. I ran my hands from your shoulders into your red hair pushing your face just below my chest. Moving my hands back down to your shoulder, I began to massage your tight muscles. Moving down your arms making my way to your legs, I backed up. “Take your pants off.” You gladly pushed them down and was going for your boxers but I.
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