It is with trepidation he treads the raised ridges of puckered pink on your skin.
He holds you like an artist cradling a vase
His eyes captivated by you, yet touching you only delicately, the moment shadowed by the fear
That your fragile self might shatter.
He knows that glint of hate in your eyes when you look at a mirror;
When you touch, skin on skin, caresses and fumblings and kisses and hitched breaths,
It is always dark.
You don’t have to see the scars;
and neither does he.
The shadows hide the faults, the flaws, the fears.
* * *
The day I saw your mother hug you, and step back to look at you with pride, her arms clutching yours, only to recoil when she felt the healing skin, and remove her hands indelicately, I knew –
I would never love you gently.
Everyone else walked on eggshells around you. Everyone else expected you to crumble at the slightest breeze of disaffection. Everyone else told you in their actions that you were fragile.
I wanted to tell you you were strong.
When we argued I didn’t lower my voice in case it sounded like your demons, when my hand traced the angry red lines that decorated your arms I did not kiss them better or withdraw my touch, when our lips would brush i was never delicate, never timid -
you have had enough of timid.
I knew the glint of hate in your eyes when you looked in the mirror, so when we lay skin on skin I made sure there was light and you could see the scars just as i could, and you could see the warmth in my eyes as they drank them in, and you could learn to look at them the same way.
We had love without shadows.
And I loved you -
lights on.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
I once dated this girl.
Sometimes she got annoyed with me
When I forgot her birthday
Or made her coffee
When I was supposed to know she drank tea
Or when I’d rent a movie
That wasn’t her favourite one;
But even though I didn’t always
Get her a birthday present
I sometimes got her flowers
Or made her breakfast in bed
Just because
And not out of annual obligation.
I never did pay much attention
To what she drank;
I was far too focused
On the look of content
And the way she cradled a warm mug
Like a little taste of heaven.
With movies, I chose any I saw-
It didn’t matter what genre
Because her reactions were fascinating
Every single time.
I think it frustrated her
That if I was asked to
I couldn’t name her favourite colour -
But she could say mine.
She knew I was a coffee person
And the name of my favourite band;
She knew my middle name
And the street I grew up on
And the name of my first boyfriend-
And she never forgot my birthday.
If she had to fill out a questionnaire
On how well she knew me
She’d pass with flying colours.
But she didn’t know
I only drank coffee
From a particular chipped white mug
I bought in a china shop
When I first moved out of my parents house.
And she didn’t know
Why my favourite band
Were so special to me
(they had this song
I listened to for weeks on end
After my brother's funeral)
She didn’t know
How much I hated my middle name
Because I shared it with a girl
Who used to pull my hair in class
Or that I still visit
The street I grew up on
Every month or so
Just to recall what home felt like.
She never asked why I broke up
With my first boyfriend-
So I never told her
About him hitting me.
And I never did have the heart
To tell her
How much I hated birthdays.
If she had to fill out a questionnaire
On knowing me
She’d tick all the right boxes.
She loved me on paper;
I loved her by heart.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC