The Physics of Violent Love

What'll you do with that knife, dear?
If I may make a request, please start here
at my clavicle;
be a radical,
and lay waste when skin and blade are near.

I'm not butter, love, so you'll need to go crazy;
I'd like the scars to be pretty, but feel free to be lazy:
that was a tendon;
no preconditions.
Will I have motor skills when you're done with me, baby?

I quiver at your mastery of the sliver of silver,
jolting as you choose the place to initially dismember:
the abdominals? -
you're abominable;
do something that'd get us stopped by the most liberal of censors.

Tempted you were to play with the ridges,
now you've got my type O on all ten of your digits;
I'm sure I can feel it,
the narcotics don't believe it;
you're hardly living up to your title of twisted.

Fuck the figurative manifestations, we know why we've rendezvoused;
The wicked smile playing your lips makes quite sure that I'm onto you.
For a thirty-fifth of my breathing,
you made the act have meaning;
but nevermore, and all of these shattered ribs are for you.