Some days, I see blood everywhere. On beautiful faces, clumped into strands of your dark hair, on your soft breasts and thighs. Some days, it's all I can think of.

I am not homicidal. I am not suicidal. I would never want to seriously hurt you. I do not fantasize about gun shootings, swords, or deep, festering wounds. God, even violence in films sometimes disturbs me.

So why won't these thoughts leave me? Everywhere, blood. I want to take a paper-thin razor and gently glide it down your silky back, a tiny red stream flowing through my fingertips. I want to feel that liquid warmth drip to my naked chest when you are inside me, stain the satin sheets.

You wonder why I can never climax. Curiously, you try to poke and prod in conversation, question me about my most illicit sexual fantasies. But how could I ever tell you?

Would you let me penetrate you with thin needles, tiny red droplets rolling down your taut stomach? Would you let me pierce, over and over again, till our skin is tinted with pink? The thought alone makes me shiver. Would you let me?

Some days, I see crimson everywhere. But how could I ever tell you, my love?