Pain in Flesh

By Julia Rose Maseda

--

His hands hold me

like they are the sharpest of knives,

Painful.

Enduring the pressure

I bear with each breath I take.

But just like a cut,

there is warmth

in every ounce of blood

His hands draw from my skin.

Its only when he lets go

That I feel the cold air

On the wounds he left.

Then, he grabs me again,

and thankful I am,

I’m warm once more.

Forgetting how I became cold in the first place-

(before?)

and when he leaves again, (Oh?)

how cold I will be-

once more.