Poetic Relapse.

Supple.

I'm a virgin to the soft touch a hand could give to a smooth cheek.

These soft caresses are so foreign that, when you laid your hand against the supple skin of my jaw,

I flinched.

Though I lay these hands against your skin in soft waves of caress and warmth, the feeling of hands on my own, is such a shock to my mind that is riddled with hurt, cannot fathom this thing called, "kindness."

I am at cross roads when it comes to you these days when all I want is to lay in bed and become accustomed to the feel of fingertips gliding their was across the soft expanse of skin on my thighs, no longer fear the ever-steady tremble of my hands when you call me yours.

But I wonder from time to time if I've picked the right path, with you. We have these long talks that end up making me feel so drained that I want to sleep, because I know you're trying to help me, but I am not so sure I want to help myself to the extent of taking time off work and have to admit to myself that I have these opportunities to assist myself in the sweet relevance of recovery.

Put a bullet in my brain and put it to rest, or move away with me and start a new.