somewhataddictive

isn’t it curious how your fingers fit perfectly between each of my sclerous ribs, or how your breath mimics mine with belated accuracy                         (count each breath and you’ll run out of fingers.) don’t you remember the fairytales?                           (and they both lived happily ever after, until after ran out and the monogamy became as non-existent as  the magic.) you were never one for myths. with discerning eyes, you’d plant kisses along the ridges of my back across my shoulders and the hollow beneath my jaw, questioning my pastel skin and every involuntary blink. “I am not a myth.”

sometimes I think I’m just a mess of badly drawn lines. I’m just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice. my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I can’t see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does. ‘why do you love me?’ ‘you make me happy.’ I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back wi