Disdain

Here comes that brush-stroke, writing off warnings as empty threats and to disguise desires as propositions. That paint is too opaque to level the scars.

The flesh of my flesh deludes the fabric of my being into believing it's one marvelous skin. There must be some way to know that I am bleeding.

There is a grief that placates that creature at the core - prying its sheath and nut apart with pliers and wedges before its nails do the digging. All it does is screech.

There is no reasoning when that part of you aches to die - merely must we let it starve, our terror notwithstanding. Its name is buried in the back of our mouths, telling lies.