Books on a Bed

I spend my time in the contemplation of skin.
I pretend to know my own
but I barely do.
I tend to avoid any kindness to my skin
I rip and shred and tear at my own
and leave scars and bruises and blood.

But today
I find myself in pleasant ruminations
of lips meeting skin.
I come to the memories of
the obscenities you whisper to me
in rooms where the lights are bright,
the way my stomach drops when your hands
run through my hair
and the surprised laughter.

I find myself stretched out
like my favorite felines
balking in the presence of the sun.
It's warm and kind and
I'm comforted.
And it's a torturous slow burn
lighting me on fire
until I can feel my hair alive with nerves
and everything feels so exquisite
that I can't breathe.