The scalpel cuts;
My skin stings;
Her hand dances.

With the effort and finesse of a calligrapher, she cuts floral patterns into me,
deep curves with shallow tips, sprites of petals flicked like the wisps of barley or wheat.
It feels amazing.

She was trepidatious at first, until
i started moaning, gasping.
She breezes the blade gently across my skin, not cutting,
letting me feel that sharpness without fear or resentment;
her wrist curves, another
crimson line
beads and
bleeds and
pours.

There is a black towel beneath me;
the bed stains.
~

des