Spilled Ink from the Vault

I offer you my tears, willingly, and yet 
we both have to work for them. 
Whilst their threatening presence ever lurks
for a variety of reasons, it takes the perfect storm 
to breach the dam walls. 
You’ve seen what I can take, 
and it requires a certain finesse
to dance at the borders of breaking me,
walking that tightrope between pleasure and pain,
holding my hidden fragility in vice-like strength
and yet somehow not crushing the petals,
and afterwards you inspect each one for damage, 
inhale the heady scent, and compliment 
the subtle shades as though you hadn’t 
just this moment ripped them from the bud
for the entertainment of us both.
He loves me not, 
but that does not even hurt anymore, 
as you provide aftercare enough 
to soothe the fresh marks on my skin
and the old marks on my heart.