Clean Skin

My canvas of skin stretched out broad beneath your fingertips as I wrapped my legs around you, noting the simple way we fit into our niches. It was easy then when seeing the look that used to make me bloom open for you. I've since venus fly-trapped again, curled into myself after one too many times of you pushing me against walls that never threatened to fall because you would never allow that. You liked it better this way: leaving me cuts and scratches as reminders. It was always easier to hurt me than having to embrace me. Now, I have only war mementos, jagged etches and grooves in my skin that are lifelines to memories of you, and bruises that have yet to fade. And what have you left of me? You've moved on to others, those with pure deer eyes and clean skin. But you will only leave them scarred in the end.