The outer margins of the wound were surgically traced with grace and longing. Curious, thought the knife, that there was actual affection.
For somehow in this lopsided cosmere that contrived to bring these two together, there’d been born a kind of perverted relationship among these two.
The wound, which by very definition was an effigy to it’s prowess had become something more. Had reached into the filings of the knife and fetched depths of hitherto unrealised aches for companionship.
So although this was a classical opressor vs oppressed dynamic, continually punctuated by the fervered fountaining of blood from the wound, the warmth of intimacy gradually filled up.
Doubly curious too, these encounters with the excitable wound were a counterpoint to the bleak,cold existence that was an everpresent.
For although it’s nature was to hurt, it still cared enough about the wound, savoured the deep pleasure of it’s encounters with the wound, fighting a constant war deep within:
Perhaps fitting then: for as within, so without and in all this the unconscionable dichotomy blossomed.