blessure

you don't understand how fortunate i feel to exist. i'm alive. i feel like an open wound. i feel sensitive to everything. i'm always hurting. i bleed with reckless abandon.
and my god, how i hope i never heal and turn into a scar. i never want to be encased in tough skin that doesn't feel. i want the vulnerability. i want the raw emotions. i want. if i were a cold, unfeeling, numb scar, would i ever want? would i ever desire? would i ever feel passion?

i'm an open wound, not a scar. i'm tattered, busted flesh, flapping in the wind. i'm the soft, new skin below the surface, suffocating from the exposure to uncomfortable amounts of fresh air.

lick me up, kiss me, rub the pad of your thumb along me. i want you so close that i can feel the subtle up-down-up-down of your fingers as the texture of their identifiable patterns find solace in the nooks and crannies of my own stinging, throbbing physicalness.
("physicalness"? who knows. will fix eventually.)