The scars on my back tell me stories, just like the bruises on your knees sing to you. In a monstrous moment of passion, you looked us in the eye, and wondered, aloud, how it could get any better than this.
And then we found out that it couldn't. But it could get a lot worse.
Our love is a texture of taboo,
sunk into our hot wounds,
blood coated on your nails,
and tears melting on my face.