They went for a midnight swim.
The moonlight glinted off of the ripples in the water like a billion stars,
their bodies flowed together like their own current.
He was infinite; the night gave him an energy that he’d never felt before.
She was an anchor, weighed down by the clothes that soaked in the water and clung to her like a second skin.
No matter how safe and comforting his arms were,
the voice in the back of her head screamed that all anchors sink.

His fingers braided her flowing brunette hair under the water.
He said it felt so soft that it almost wasn’t there,
but it was just there enough for him to never want his hands to leave the cloud-like wisps of brown.

So they sat by the shoreline
and he twisted locks of her hair between *******,
the sky stars and the lake stars throwing their light into battle.
They kissed with a love that only one of them wanted,
His hand resting on the nape of her neck and fingertips stroking the hairs at the base of her skull.
Their lips moved in sync,
but her body laid stiff.
She shivered when his fingers pulled and twisted gently between strands.

The voice in the back of her head spoke up again;
warning her of what would happen if he tugged just a little too hard.

Would he become the other boy?

The other boy
who treated her pale skin as a canvas.
Who painted only in shades of black and blue,
his fists were his only paintbrushes.
The boy who grabbed her arm,
dug his nails into her skin,
shoved his tongue down her throat as sharp as a dagger.
This boy told her she was beautiful.
Called her a work of modern art.
A masterpiece.

His masterpiece.



In an instant,
him with his lips pressed to hers,
whose arms felt like home
and whose eyes gleamed with all the wonderful things the world had to offer…

He looked like the other boy.

His smile,
warm and inviting,
now twisted into a wicked grin in her mind.
Each slight tug of hair felt to her like she was being scalped;
Like his hand would disappear into the locks and emerge with a thousand strands in his palm,
torn out by the roots.
She was bleeding from the head,
bleeding from the heart...



With each current lover that would someday become a part of the past,
she saw him.
Their hands would trail over parts of her that were once bruised and broken
and she would only feel his fingers pressing into her skin.
Her love was forever a tribute to the other boy,
for he was the artisan,
and she was his canvas.
He signed his craftsman’s signature on her heart in permanent ink,
and forever
she would be his masterpiece.