"What makes her company fairly tolerable is that she doesn't question all those wounds; doesn't enquire about the origin of all those scars.
As she peels off every layer of my array, she pretends to be oblivious to the black and blue hues of my skin, bestowed by the steel buckle of my father's belt.
She kisses me not like a lover; rather a healer and strangely enough it seems to work. The room falls away when my sore lips press against hers and when her fingers graze my bare and vulnerable skin, all the pain seems to have subdued. Even when she grips my lower back harder to make herself irresistible, I fail to feel the horror of those torturous nights, reeking of alcohol and spilt blood.
Of course she knows. The empathy in her pupils is clearly visible no matter how much she attempts to mask it with passion. I'm here at her mercy and she chooses to spare me the shame of abuse, the helplessness of bloodlines and the rage of my masculinity.
She stripes my clothes, yet let's my ego rest; adorned in artificial jewels of ignorance.
And for that alone, I'm forever grateful.
And for that alone, I deliberately forget to ask her about her forearm, where she slits open her skin repeatedly as punishment."
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