By day, she`s like a blurry photograph-there, but not in focus. Who really sees her, as she walks to and fro? She's there, because she has always been there-but she feels so thin that she's almost transparent. Who has time for her, in the day, when the ugly truths are so much easier to see?
By day, she has purpose, a mission, and being overlooked is a blessing. She loves that she can go as she is, radish earrings and bottlecap necklace and all, and still blend into the background. Is that acceptance or tolerance? She's not sure which is true (or which is worse).
By day, she is a friend. There with warm smiles and pearls of wisdom wrapped in riddles covered in conundrums. Her touch is welcome, it is healing, and she takes it in from them and buries it somewhere deep inside. In the daylight, she comforts and soothes away other's pain while her own festers below the skin (see what an actress she's become?).
At night, there are shadows, but no cover. When the moon is out, when the world is dark, he traces the scars along her back with a single finger. Lazily, focused, slowly, rushed, softly, and roughly-his touch changes with every curve he skims. He traces and traces, until they are done. He asks as he goes, where this one came from, who held the blade for this one. After, he follows his finger with his lips, chapped and cracked flesh that feels like healing balm on her marred flesh.
When he takes her, it's mind-numbingly beautiful, heart-breakingly fulfilling, and always from behind. He's a giant, covers her tiny frame with his much larger one. He pushes in and out, hands running up along her sides and over her breasts with fierce determination. She moans for him, keens loud and long from somewhere deep in her throat. She makes so much noise, sounds that would shock the others with their vehemence, with their volume.
One night, he swears, they'll do this face-to-face. She covers her chest with the blanket, hugs it obsessively, hiding the true battle wounds from his sight.
One Night
By day, she has purpose, a mission, and being overlooked is a blessing. She loves that she can go as she is, radish earrings and bottlecap necklace and all, and still blend into the background. Is that acceptance or tolerance? She's not sure which is true (or which is worse).
By day, she is a friend. There with warm smiles and pearls of wisdom wrapped in riddles covered in conundrums. Her touch is welcome, it is healing, and she takes it in from them and buries it somewhere deep inside. In the daylight, she comforts and soothes away other's pain while her own festers below the skin (see what an actress she's become?).
At night, there are shadows, but no cover. When the moon is out, when the world is dark, he traces the scars along her back with a single finger. Lazily, focused, slowly, rushed, softly, and roughly-his touch changes with every curve he skims. He traces and traces, until they are done. He asks as he goes, where this one came from, who held the blade for this one. After, he follows his finger with his lips, chapped and cracked flesh that feels like healing balm on her marred flesh.
When he takes her, it's mind-numbingly beautiful, heart-breakingly fulfilling, and always from behind. He's a giant, covers her tiny frame with his much larger one. He pushes in and out, hands running up along her sides and over her breasts with fierce determination. She moans for him, keens loud and long from somewhere deep in her throat. She makes so much noise, sounds that would shock the others with their vehemence, with their volume.
One night, he swears, they'll do this face-to-face. She covers her chest with the blanket, hugs it obsessively, hiding the true battle wounds from his sight.
One night, he swears.
Never, she replies.