Your presence in my life is a series of puncture wounds. Brief. In-out. In-out. But deep. They bleed and bleed. And just as one begins to heal, you come and inflict another. In-out. It bleeds and bleeds.
Every time I ready my armor. I start to slowly put it on. But I’m never fast enough. In-out. Blood. Because I do not want to be. In-out. Blood. For you are a rose, and to have your beauty, I will bear your thorns. In-out. Blood.