a wound, tightly knit

I am hurt. There is a wound under my skin that only seems to open after you have touched me, and it stings.

I don't mind; I have dealt with worse devils than those you claim to have partnered with on many occasions, but it reminds me of mortality. Of feeling. Of vulnerability I thought I had cast away some time ago. It takes time to sew myself up again, each suture a thick black line remarking that I am not as cold as I pretend to be.

It unsettles me to look down and see them -- the past is the past and should remain quiet -- and yet, somehow, I don't regret a moment.