You hold me so tight
I fear I might break
But the feeling
It feels so good
To be against you
Against your chest
I feel as though we are one
I love this
I feel wanted
So please
My love
Hold me tighter
Go ahead
You can break me if you want.

Sometimes it feels as if I have no skin on.

Every blow of unfavorable wind
like thousands of needles
driven deep into exposed flesh.
Crowds of relentless, sandpaper-cloaked figures
tear off muscle, fiber by fiber
as they pass scraping by.
Gazes turn sunbeams into chisels
that carve fourth degree burns
into the sorry mess of these insides-turned-outsides.

Maybe I truly have no skin on. Maybe that's why they point at me.
Always with such pity, amusement
And disgust.

Sure, it may be like death;
this agonizing, vicious pain.
But you can decide to end it in two particular ways;
either you allow the torment to destroy you merciless,
or shape you into a person deadlier than before.

There is a probability where you might succumb to madness,
but that is something inevitable.
Does it matter?
Madness favors you by casting a shadow over your own vulnerability.

Something more than you can ever ask for.

— Y.H.

delirium,
gentle fervor.

The sound of your voice,
Ignites a fire within me.
Gorgeous, dancing flames,
Replace the darkness inside my body,
With light.

Suddenly, I wince with pain.
The light falters,
As the realization hits:
My innards are being scorched.

At first, the flames displayed such beauty,
And blindingly dazzled.
I took no notice of the slow burning,
Charring my innocence.

Silencing you,
Was the only way to put out the fire,
And slowly begin to heal.

Robbing you of your voice,
Means eliminating your existence,
To me.