The curves and figures
your fingers burned
into my skin that had once been melted,
have solidified, burying
themselves in permanence.

I have tried to scratch them out and away,
but the nights and days
are never long enough
to gain an edge.

I could claw and tear, rip open my flesh
to create new scars, at least not made by you.
There are remnants of your DNA etched upon me
(pouring from me).

I wish I could have left my impressions on you,
sunken into the taut skin of your belly,
so that you would have ripped yourself right open
to spill upon the floor,
desperate to relieve the scars
my fingers could have (should have) left.