Grafting

Here, a piece of flesh.

I offer you a part of my skin, a patchwork of muscles and sinews, bared open to you like a live wire. Trace the green and purple cobwebs oozing with spurts of red. Watch how a tiny spider crawls its way in, weave itself a home, and be choked with its own trappings. This is my body

Which unravels before your eyes, and I break it for you whilst lisping a short prayer that you would not draw back.

No. I’m not asking you to heal me. Your hands are as cold as mine. Your sores blooming its way out underneath those layers of worn clothing you call skin. It calls out to me, latching on my fragile nerves, while I suck and drain both its poison and its blood.

We cannot make balms out of open wounds. I know, because I’ve tried.

Instead, let our skins be garments of each other. Let it weave a gauze on its own- a third skin that would hopefully wrap the scabs that we repeatedly scratch open. For the time being, lend yourself in mine, as I let the rough parts of myself patch your tender ones.

And when the time of leaving comes, when daybreak pierces through what we have made inseparable, let us peel ourselves away from each other- not out of repulse since we’ve already seen the repulsiveness of one another- but out of respect.

As beings who have been under the same skin.

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