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And B., I remember that day when I wrote this and sent it to you:

That rain that fell yesterday,
those violent drops were my tears.
For when the many times my fingers eased the knot in your back
and I felt your sigh,
I thought then that this could not possibly
be an illusion. Imagine my surprise,
that July night, strangely cool,
(I was wearing black, as if I knew).
I wanted to hurt you; to take your arms
and twist them behind you,
to rake my jagged nails across your brow,
to bite you until the copper taste
of your blood warmed my lips.
Not like before, those many times,
when you pushed into me, and my head fell back;
my eyes closed, my heart jumped, I felt
such incredible beating joy.

You called me than, and when the phone rang, I knew it was you, and I did not want to answer. I wanted those words to be my final words. But I thought of your eyes, and I picked up. You thought I wanted to hurt you. My words were too real? But that was never my intention. My words save me from such acts. I tried to explain that to you, but my voice was shaking and it was difficult for me to express myself. Always, around you, I get tongue-tied.