[Jag är lite osäker på om jag lagt upp den här texten innan, men en eventuell upprepning får Ni stå ut med]

The first blood
from your teeth
cutting my lips as you
force your breath into
my being

The second
gravel scraping my knees
through well-worn denim
and your hands, powerful
on my shoulders

As if you were
a God unto whom
kneeling was meant
to be a sacred thing
and not like this

The third blood
cresents suddenly blooming
across the palms
of my hands;
tight fists behind my back

Scar tissue to be
not a ring of love
but ownership
branded on to something
you feel like you own

The final blood
shed willingly
as I, my heart, my very self
bursts when I try to say
three simple words.