I've seen you fight three at once with only the haft of a broken shovel. But it's not your mean-streak that I'm obsessed with.
I want to bury my fingers in your hair. Has it ever met the teeth of a comb? I dream about running my fingernails over your scalp, barely touching you. Licking the sweat from the soft down at the back of your neck. If I could, I'd grab your face, fast enough to surprise you, and then I'd kiss your open mouth, soft as a cat at the milk bowl.
There are tattoos across your shoulders and breasts, marks I want to trace and decipher, guessing at the meaning of each - this one is your first heartbreak, I imagine, and that one is for the first time you stabbed someone, you little savage.
I want to know all about you, to read the story on your body. All the chapters, even the secret ones. Do you have tattoos under your knickers? Legend has it that one of the boys who saw that ink and blabbed about it didn't survive to see it again.
I want to bite and kiss your skin just hard enough so you'll keep a mark, a new tattoo made by my lips and teeth. Maybe you'd shiv me in my sleep for doing that, buy I won't care, as long as you remember me for a few days.