Harsh devotion

Your eyes taunt me in the halls.
That gaze is like a brand,
Burnt on the inside of my ankles,
My stark ribs, the ridge
Of my collarbone. Your fingers
Trace the pattern of your gaze
At night; where I am delicate,
Or vulnerable, you leave your mark.
Your touch burns me. I admit,
I turn from you in the day,
From your knowing eyes. The blame
Is mine; it is my weakness
To give you my marked skin,
So fragile, breakable, to scald
With your fingertips by night.