Sometimes I wish my love life was as lively as my self-destructive life.
To be as dedicated to love as I am to self-hate-
Where intimacy does not require blades or scissors,
And the only marks forced upon my legs come from the passionate grasp of another.
To touch only with tender hands.
Exploring the crevices of my body; gently, slowly, adoringly,
With nothing but my own accepting flesh- and perhaps that of others as well.
Where the droplets of blood evaporate into the archives of yesterday,
Never to return.
When the wires of my brain transfix themselves and turn to the greater good of my wellbeing.
Where intimacy does not penetrate my skin, rather, mend my heart.
When my heart opens itself and accepts to be loved.
This would be an accomplishment in itself.
curiosity killed the cat 