tigersaint

the twenty-fourth night:

i close my heart back up in the same trusted, well-worn box but this time with a few new locks.

everytime a piece of me falls away i look forward to the new scar. at this point i am made up of scars almost entirely, new skin like the seams for old skin, a rag doll that's been well loved and therefore mended manytimes. the velveteen rabbit,

or tiger, as it were.

i have been craving women lately, the softness of their curves, the gentleness of their lips, the scratching at my head as i make them cum, the way their bodies freeze and snap at the point of orgasm, their amazing taste--like me, like home.

i think about this as he uses his silk tie to bind my hands behind my back, and when he closes my collar around my neck; when he brushes my hair out of my face, wanting to look me in the eyes as he slides his fingers inside. when i am bent over the edge of the bed, moaning loudly, hungrily, the feeling of him inside me breaking everything apart.

for that moment i go blind.

as i lay with him after, his hand sleepily cupping my breast, his soft breath on the back of my neck as he gently kisses the marks left by the collar buckle, i begin to wonder what it is going to take for me to lay myself bare completely.

i begin to daydream about the shape of the hands to whom i will trust my fall and my release.

i imagine as i drift to sleep that when i fall i will be able to have it all--the flower petals, the collar, the softness of lips to soothe my bruises, the blindness, the hunger, the scent of star jasmine, the words written with care on my skin each night before i go to sleep.

it's the desire for this, the longing and even hope, that allows me to cherish my scars. i believe they will make me beautiful, and that beauty will bring to me the one whose hands i can trust.

it will be the scars that will allow us to recognize each other, a key in its lock.