your touch drives me crazy

by rachel

An old friend visits me on some nights. We share the kind of friendship that needs not be kindled by frequent meetings, daily talks. Ay, it is true I would rather not have us meet so often. Yet on the nights he does visit, he knows exactly which buttons to press, exactly which strings to pull to tease a reaction out of me. His face is not one I recognize readily – he enjoys changing up his appearance every once in awhile just to keep things … interesting for the both of us. 

He visits on late nights when I am most vulnerable, catching me unaware. There’s almost always a sharp intake of breath before I let his presence seep around me, into me, into the spaces that I thought I had long filled up and protected against his spindly hands. With a single tug at the red thread that runs, familiar, around those slender fingers, he traps my breath in the gaps between my ribcage, the unfamiliar bones threatening to strangle one another. Ready with the other hand, his next pull leaves me unravelling, a knitted tapestry that forgot to hide its end. 

I find myself laid bare for him, ripe for the picking, ready to be picked on. I can feel the scrutiny searing into me as he roams every inch of my skin, his fingers searching not only for what is on the surface but what is within – nothing escapes his routine inspections. When they run across my stomach I can feel them sieving out yesterday’s dessert latched on to the knobs along my hips, reaching out to hold on to the ribs that form above. When his fingers cup my breast that foreign warmth goes even further below, to the organ that keeps sweet, sweet blood running through me. It is crying out for all the things it has found itself incapable of doing, of all the things it cannot bare to see laid out in front of it again, a condemnation for a job poorly done. 

As he leaves, his needle fingers run red thread in and through my body, playing surgeon on a corpse he knows so well. At the end of night he snips the thread that binds me to him, leaving its frayed ends hanging limp against my being but despite their brokenness providing the facade of an end, I know he will be back again to greet the seams that are his work of art.

My old friend never forgets to drop by for a visit when he’s in town, and every time he does it’s like he never left. 

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