sweetness

You could skid fingers down my back and not grasp anything more than old memories and little flirty, nonsense I keep close by me. They are the things that keep my posture erect, even though I have long digressed into a spineless, quivering mess held up only by knowledge that perhaps this may pass and the refusal to crumble and fall.

If you were to grip my hipbones, you'll find all the love I have hidden carefully there, right smack in the middle of nowhere and nothing. Mine does not protrude harshly from my skin but enough to remember that they're still there, that love still exists in this tired body of mine. Trail your fingers along my abdomen, skim the valley of my breasts and lay your palm against my pulse. It's a dull, resounding beat and it is a little strange to think that it is one of the indications I am alive.

Move a little upwards and rest your weary fingers on the curve of my shoulder. There are more bones and skin to explore but take a breather there. Perhaps you could imagine the invisible burdens these shoulders once held but they slipped off like spilled oil, dirty and sullied. Just a bit more and you will reach my neck. Entwine your fingers over them, squeezing briefly to remind yourself that this is a life.

To remind yourself that with a mere tightening of your hands for a prolonged moment, you can end everything I am to be and eradicate whoever I am. You can steal my presence, my wishes, my hopes, my past, my dreams, my love if you would only take my breath away. Leave my neck alone then, not because you are not courageous to take the step, but because you have no need to.

Detour back to my wrists, where you would find them indecently bare. The thoughts have, indeed, flitted through my head fleetingly. There were days I wanted to mar that pale skin, taunt life and play with death, to slash cross the pipes that carry life within. To expose them to the air and see if they disintegrate then. I have dreamed of red and splashes but I have never seen them. Perhaps, not just yet.

Take yourself away from the morbidness by directing yourself back to my neck, onward to my jaw. They are not particularly defined but if you look hard enough, you will begin to see the regrets that shaped it, the imperfections that prevented it from appearing too manufactured. Should your fingers whisper across them, you could probably see how the regrets crumple away, like how ashes would fall to dust. The regrets cling to my jaw but were you to brush it, they would fall away and lose its significance. They do not fall to nothingness because they are still tangible but they are forgotten to me and that is what matters the most.

Let a thumb run over my lips, stilling the breath that has just started to escape. They are too full, too robust with sadness that they appear strange on my otherwise plain, colorless face. All I ever have are sad smiles and most of the time, they are not enough to quell the desire for anything to stifle the loneliness and acute sense of longing within me. Brush against them as though you can wipe all the sadness from them. Your efforts will probably never amount to anything but the attempts would be appreciated greatly.

Skip my nose because it does not warrant your attention, like all the problems I have shoved in a dark corner of myself. It's there and you can see it so clearly but ignore it anyway, because it would do us both no good should you try to confront them. I would cut off my nose to spite my face but I bite hard on my thoughts, unwilling to let them be known to any but me. Move on, because that is the only thing you can do.

There is hope in the corner of my eyes but if I squint, they disappear instantly but the numbing determination lingers in my elongated pupils. For all of the rest of me is that is sad and pathetic, I keep my best in my eyes and allow them to do the convincing instead of the battered body that I now house. There are so many things I could have said but I hold my tongue because there is still time for them to be revealed in the future.

When I blink, it is as though I am nothing at all, lost in the world. I feel as though, should you try to grab me and stop me, your hands would only pass by me like I am transparent, although you can clearly see me. Perhaps I am simply not substantial enough for your touch but that would be a lie because I crave it. Maybe that is your way of saying that desire and desperation comes up to nothing. I can never tell with you.

I am not leaving, although I had planned to at first. There is no point in running away when you know not what you are running from. So I'll stay and I'll be here, should you ever need to find me. Here I will wait, for those fingers that will run down my back.