Wound/Scab/Scar

I showed up around the time he needed a little excitement. They were camping, sitting in the dining tent at a splintery picnic table during a thunderstorm. They were all drunk, playing Five Finger Filet, the knife thock, thock, thocking between each digit. We became a couple then, as I opened up smiling in crimson then gushing with love for him.

He swaddled me in his beach towel, cradling me all the way to the hospital. We sat in the intimate darkness of the backseat of his friend’s car, just me and him. I was pooling on his muscular thighs. I didn’t want it to end but after ten stitches, we were now, together. Forever.

It took quite a while for him to get over the sheer amount of the painful pleasure I gave him, only because he just wouldn’t rest. He always wanted to do something with his hands. Whatever. Anyway, in time I reached middle age. I got rough, brownish red and started to lose my fresh look. Like any middle-aged couple, we became indifferent, even full of contempt for each other.

It was then that he started picking on me. He offered no excuse, other than he didn’t know what he was doing it, or, or, he was bored. I saw no signs of a rival. He said his hands were clean and they were. I had no reason not to believe him. I mean, he should have found a hobby or something to keep himself occupied, preferably not with another knife. Well, eventually, I fell away. I left him, or as he likes to say, I got rid of her.

But if you look closely between his left ring and middle finger, you can see that I’ve left my mark, reminding him of me every day. Reminding him that we were lovers.