To The Meat

I scratch at his flesh and it opens like a gaping wound of nothing and silence.  There exists tissue and muscles, veins and sinew.  I scratch harder, deeper, longing to unearth something more.  I reach bone and it just is.  He just is.  He's like the rest.  He's just like the rest.  Easy.  Simple.  No resounding discovery of mysterious delights.  He says and does what one should.  He's honest.  He's kind.  And it bores me.  In fact, I find it almost grotesque how unaffected I am by his sweet, transparent ways.  He wants what I'm sure we all think we want.  He has his identity set to fact and relishes the incomplex.  I should want this.

Then I scratch you.   I dig and I plunge my hands inside of you and I rip you to shreds and what do I find?  You bleed.  Scarlet, substantial, and full of secrecy.  You bleed and bleed and I have yet to reach bone or tissue or normal things found in the human man.  You are rare.  You do not bore me.  I could descend into you and fade out before ever reaching the truth.  I find this so exciting.  You excite me.  You stimulate a part of me I thought I had eradicated.  I feel like the person I was suppose to be around you.

Alas, I cannot be with you.  You are not mine to have.  I will suffer and wither.  Alone.