When you leave me alone with the devices and tricks of love, you’re asking for it. Starting from the tips of my fingers, flesh rots slowly and then very gradually spreading upwards till I can’t bear to touch you any more because it hurts. It starts melting from inside my face, degenerating till you can see it from the outside. I really want to pull my disfigured face apart for you; for you to see for yourself that it really exists deep down underneath the layers of my fat and muscle and tendons and sinews. I really want to pick apart at the flesh to show you proof that it saturates every pore and fibre of my being.