Reach out your arms in ribbons towards me,
cry a soundless name.
What is the origin of your pain?
It does not matter. They are all the same,
these burnings that we soothe
with the cool blade of the knife.
I only have to turn my head to see
your scars etched in my memory,
but they have no power to move,
not now, not alone. What hurts is this:
The need to happen again.
Time and time after, coming back
to the brink of the black,
to the need for the desperate kiss