We both carry weeping wounds.
It’s how we recognised each other.
Your pain smells like mine.
My fingers linger
as if I’ve always known where to press.
I teach you how.
We pull them wider,
numb as surgeons,
reckless as lovers.
Agony. Relief.
The same sound.
We dig until we find something still alive.
Scoop out the festering flesh,
careless,
barely avoiding the pulsating arteries.
Kiss the raw edge better.
Then suck out the poison.
Mouth full of rot,
choking on what I couldn't swallow myself alone.
Spit it out, I beg.
It's killing you.
You won’t.
You swallow.
You gaze, unblinking, into my eyes.
Stay, you whisper.
Stay.
Even if it kills us.
Thank you.
(I almost believe)
it... won’t.