Title

You're face is all I see.
Waking up in warm arms, I can smell you on my skin.

Foreign and familiar; not mine, oh yes...it's yours.
So is this, this hot, damp mess of organ and tissue.
Taking on a shape dissimilar to what is common.
It melts and spurts and empties it's crimson secret.
it's yours.

"That's just my battle scars" shouting, cheeks aglow.
But silent and honest accept
it's yours
it's true
and keep it you will,
the scars, already, distill.