Tortured

Your breath on my skin awakens the primal me.
Nothing means more than your slight brushing touch or quick, glancing, gaze.
My mind reels from the blows.
A butterfly caught in a raging wind flutters in my chest.
My control slipping, wanting to say what I feel, fearing the result, The Armageddon that would follow.
Tortured by the ocean of truth that denies our existence.
I wrest control back, and seal my lips.
The heart concedes to logic.
Anguish to numbness.