This wound

This wound I favor,
Instead of you.

I cling to my cure,
Though I know you are the balm.

My ointment is pain,
Heaped upon pain,
Of this wretched body of death.

It is my nature to propogate death,
To despise life,
To fear light,
To run astray,

That you would heal this one,
Who seeks his own demise.

Against my deeds and desires,
Bring me life.