Compulsion.

She slips closer under the billowing sheets of night.
I can always see the glass buried and uprooted in her ribcage. Glittering, it juts forward, inviting a slicing sensation of sanguine, sickening.
Her hands rest on my collarbone, light and hard, and slip sideways, over my shoulders, rounding to my back: Pain resides in the jagged innermosts of her fingerprints.
My fingers are in her barbwire hair when she pulls me into an embrace, and though my mind resists, I am drawn inside of her sensation.
Glass catches my skin, rips my vitals, and lets spill my life.
She is pain.