He is laced with lies I was forced to sew underneath his skin.
I am an open book ready for her to rip the pages he so carefully inked.
She is a blade sharpened by the years of trust issues and lack of love.
He has begun to tattoo his flesh so as to remember where he left off from my pages.
I shield from that knife that will so cleanly slice away the traces of his calligraphy.
She relishes in the opportunity to once more cut through my pages.
He is bound by my pain and has begun to bleed around the wrists and throat.
I hope that my binding can withstand the cool tip of the blade pressed so closely.
She slowly traces the soft cover that seems to easy to tear.
He imagines the possibility of utilizing his own dull blade to slice through the binds.
I bleed ink in the hopes that he will be reminded of the words he etched on my pages.
She grabs a towel to soak up the tears of my past so that they will be once again invisible.
He slowly reaches back and removes his far from sharpened piece of metal and begins to saw.
I start to relinquish to the sharp, cold blade of defeat.
She cackles in triumph and slowly begins to separate the folds of my binding.
He's been at it for a while now and there is no dent or sever on the wraps of wrist and throat.
I bleed ink in the hopes she will realize these are not tears of defeat, but of triumph.
She quickly begins to slash at my soft cover, but it is not longer soft.
He notices the metal binding that has formed around my remaining pages.
I know that once I am rid of her this binding will return again to the same soft cover I once had.
She screams and moans in desperation that she can no longer cut through my book.
He begins to write in that beautiful calligraphy once more, filling pages.
I will never relinquish the copyright of my book, but I will allow him to decorate the pages.