You must have picked scabs as a child,
Drawing your own blood excited you.
You continue to rip off bandaids,
To leave wounds raw, bloodied at your hands.
But you don’t stop at your own,
You scar my limbs, pox marks
Carelessly littered down my legs,
Scratches left open on my arms.
If you can’t let yourself heal,
The sadist in you craves the smell of burning flesh.