Clean Skin
My canvas of skin stretched out broad
beneath your fingertips as I wrapped my legs
around you, noting the simple way
we fit into our niches. It was easy then when
seeing the look that used to make
me bloom open for you.
I've since venus fly-trapped again,
curled into myself after one
too many times of you pushing me
against walls that never threatened to fall
because you would never allow that.
You liked it better this way: leaving me
cuts and scratches as reminders.
It was always easier to hurt me
than having to embrace me.
Now, I have only war mementos,
jagged etches and grooves in my skin
that are lifelines to memories of you,
and bruises that have yet to fade.
And what have you left of me?
You've moved on to others,
those with pure deer eyes and
clean skin.
But you will only
leave them scarred
in the end.
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