Track Marks, an ode

I love to gently kiss her track marks as she nods off on the couch. Like a connect the dots that makes the most beautiful portrait. My tongue goes numb on the freshest spots. She doesn’t even stir in her homemade coma. It makes me love her even more.

I like to trace my tongue down the scars on her legs and arms. A roadmap of depression and angst. Tantalizingly thick swirls of thick pink tissue. Markings that brand her and shine light into her soul. I taste her pain and feel the rugged remains. It makes me love her more.

I like to kiss her crooked little smile. The one only I get to see. Her mischevious form that promises pleasures undreamt. She is my vice. My drug. My sorrow. I could not love her more. 

I left her once. Alone and in pain. Swore myself to never go back into that cycle of violence. But the allure was too strong. I am her needle, she is my fix. She is the knife and I am the scar. 

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