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.
this isn't finished i didn't mean to make it public oh dear
