January 21, 2011.

November 4, 2011
“They’re so ugly.”

“Funny, just like me,” I mutter.

He snaps his head up and his eyes—his amazing, chocolate brown eyes—bore into me. He looks back down, his lanky fingers tracing across the shiny, pale slashes along my arm.

“No. You’re beautiful.”

I shake my head, my hair rippling across my shoulders. He reaches up and tucks a loose strand behind my ear. His hands are cold, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Goosebumps spread across my body like wildfire.

“Why do you do it?” he whispers.

His hands hover over my thighs briefly before he sets them down gently, like a feather. I wince against my own will. He furrows his brow.

“God damn it. Baby, did you really?”

He tries to push the fabric of the hem of my shorts out of the way. I slap my hands down on top of my thighs before he can get any further. The impact hurts; stings, but not in a good way. Not like the good sting the blade presents. My eyes start to tear as he starts to rub my thighs tenderly.

I take a second and just look at him. It feels like a lifetime. He’s like an angel, my own personal angel. His wavy hair is getting slightly too long and starting to curl at the ends. The curve of his jaw seems perfect except for the small indent that forms as he clenches it and unclenches it. His lips are the shade of dusty rose. There’s a small cut on the left side of his bottom lip. I don’t know where it came from. I bite own my lip softly out of habit.

He looks up at me, those chocolate brown eyes staring into my soul again. I open my mouth to say something, but my mind shuts off. He kisses the pads of my fingers.

“Why do you do it?” he murmurs.

“My parents, myself, Blaire.”
He flinches at her name. I know he doesn’t like when I bring her up. I know neither of us does. She’s a memory now.
He kisses the inside of my wrist. He pulls back and starts tracing along my scars again. I shiver and look at him. He looks back at me. We’re silent. I look away.
The room seems too dark for only 7 o’clock. His curtains are rustling softly. The color of his walls reminds me of the ocean—dark, dark blue. I can hear the rain pattering against the window and the roof. I look up at the exposed beams of his ceiling. Something about this room, old and attic like, makes me so comfortable. His bed is too soft, but too hard at the same time. The blanket I made him is bunched up in a corner. I slip my feet under it as he continues to kiss my arms and wrists.
I rub my arms. It’s too cold and my arms aren’t used to being exposed like this. I miss my long sleeve shirts and jeans. I look back down at him. He’s too focused on my scars to notice. His eyes travel down to my legs. My shorts cover the red, angry cuts, but I feel he can see through them. I shudder as butterflies build in my stomach.
His fingers venture a few centimeters up, pushing the fabric out of the way. He doesn’t look at the fresh cuts because he doesn’t want to see anything that brings me pain. He doesn’t understand that it’s better than feeling nothing at all. Like the song ‘Iris’ says, “When everything feels like the movies, you bleed just to know you’re alive.”
I kiss the top of his head and put my hand on top of his. He clenches his jaw again and squeezes his eyes shut. He trails his fingers along the new cuts, light as air, not wanting to hurt me. My heart is racing a million mile an hour.
“I’m going make you stop. Going to,” he says softly.
“If that’s what you want to think,” I reply, just above a whisper.
He looks up at me again, but this time his eyes have a fire behind them. He puts his hands on my cheeks and kisses me softly.
“I love you. Jesus, you don’t even know how much. Try to stop. For me.”
I bite my lip hard and open my mouth to say something. He interrupts me with another soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“You shouldn’t be ruining something so perfect with something so gruesome.”
He traces a heart on my thigh and kisses my forehead. And with that, my stomach erupts in butterflies.





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