I am twisted beyond recognition, hissing and snarling, a creature unused to human contact. You approach and I claw at you, draw blood and you jerk back as if burned. But you hold no trace of fire.
You're bloody and broken in a way I almost recognize, the core
(more) of you matching the core of me though you stand tall with bared teeth and I crouch under tables and yowl. You reach your hand out again. This time I don't snatch at the blood under your skin.
You offer a throaty noise that would be a warning if you didn't catch it between your teeth, press your lips together and kiss it into a hum. I respond high pitched and wild. A caged animal.
You wait. You lure me out with stillness, with your scent unlaced with threat or even misconstrued kindness. You show me no mercy, no gentle coaxing. And so I emerge from under my cover, from the corner I pressed myself into to keep safe from the world. It is still mine, my last defense, but now I know when I run to it you will wait. You will sit and speak without moving, you will reach not with your hands but your voice to calm me. You will, eventually, draw me out again.
And I press my head into your hand when I am able, when I feel safe, and you smile and play with my hair and loosen me enough to fall asleep with your touch. With one hand you hold me against your slow-thudding heartbeat and it matches mine. We two tight-wound springs coil into eachother. We are wild, you and I. We are not meant for this world. But here we stay regardless, together. And on the other hand, you wear my scar. (less)
