virgin blood

There was this girl who seemed to really like me. She loved touching my hair, laughing at my smile, breathing in my scent. She was the same one who used to hold my hand tightly. Then, she spat on the wounds on my wrists, where golden blood trickled down. Her filthy saliva caused infections that make me itch to this day. They open up whenever I scratch them. I can't stop. I actually like scratching them. It gives me a strange, unknown pleasure. No matter how much blood I spilled, I always wanted to scratch more. Until there was nothing left to scratch—until my arm had been torn off by that same "me." I have new open wounds now. They ooze putrid, black blood. I wish she would spit on my wounds one more time. But she refused. My blood is no longer valuable. It is bitter.