It is not lust for the sting in the blade that I crave,
But the trust.
The simple seduction of willing my life unto His hands.
I do not fear it.
Although, the thrill is fervent in my soul.
Let me be your canvas of warmth.
To feel His vehement touch, convincing my lungs to inhale shallow,
And my heart to hurry.
His impression left to linger, it does not burn on skin,
But rather, within my soul.
And with every notch…every pull of the blade,
even though it may pierce on the outside,
Is internally mending what was once broken…
The flesh reaped will then sew.
And such is how my heart is bound and stitched,
My soul is healed,
My conscience remedied,
My sickness cured.
Ultimate trust alone within Him
What is never present in any other.