I am the rose and you the thorn, so I bear these scratches and you smell of perfume. Yet as the cosmos shifts and I gain the upper hand we both heal, you and I. After all, we grew together of the same roots, part of the same blessed flower.
The scratches were the keen memories etched into soft skin, the reminder that those who feel threatened often become what they fear. So while I cried at their gouging and resented the cheap red lines upon what was once a blank canvas, I cherish their faded silvery ribbons.
The cold wind makes the scratches feel raw and the sunlight has them grow bright. Out here I feel as if my skin were some bill board advertising my vulnerabilities, but the comfort of the dank cave is the worst of illusions. Without this cold wind and sun they would fester and become infected; I've seen what rogue toxins can do. So I'll sit here as if the intestines of some rodent has fused to my skin in great and generous lashes and wait for it to fade.
A scoundrel's blade cuts in jagged ugly lines. They forge their steel in the dirty weaponry district and it is more fish-hook than sword. With the filth on them any scratch can prove fatal.
Izzy, it's only a scratch. What matters is that everything else is good underneath. Your bones are strong, muscles too. All these, well, they just make your story all the better.
You scratch me with inky claws, yet in truth you shadow box, scratching imaginary skin while I watch from the sidelines. Your wrath is your weakness, for it renders you predictable and stupid. You are but a frustrated child lashing out because your medicine, the love I offer, tastes so unfamiliar to your tongue.