Nice

When I open up my chest, ripping out the old stitches, when I hold it open so you can see what I’m like inside, soft and squishy and easy-to-hurt, when I lay it all bare like that, airing the old, already-healed wounds, when you peer over me and blow a soft, whispery breath over what used to pain and bleed but doesn’t anymore, I want you to know that it feels really… nice.