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I may be hiding fangs and claws underneath this stretched out deer skin but as soon as I set my gaze upon you mine are harmless fawn eyes. I came across a recycled phrase, fawning — as a vice, fawning as in aching for perfection or at least for never-making-a-mistake and I ended up thinking, heaven's sake, today, why does everything have to be a disease? I stare on with harmless fawn eyes and keep my mouth closed and my fangs hidden, clawed hands behind my back.
These days someone would say you have siren eyes. Cold and sharp, shallow between thick obsidian lashes and they themselves are pitch black, you always seem so sure of yourself, challenging established traditions and mocking tyrants, but oh how quick you are to avert your eyes when I'm staring and you ask me what's the matter and I say nothing. Shame on me for thinking, look at them, aren't they behaving like a prey?
I soften purposefully and you tell me I am kind. I let you use the worst words I can think of: kind, sweet, soft-hearted, tender. I rehearse them in my mind until I feel like I'm about to puke. But if I ask myself what kind of person do I want to be when I'm with you I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry but the answer is a kind one.
I struggle to remind myself that nice doesn't equal stupid and weak. Then I look at you and it's as if you're surrounded by a giant unsteady halo of flames, the obscene red of a ripe nectarine flowing out of your actions, the heavy scent of graveyard-forgotten roses, the rich taste of red wine, what I mean is you're brash, you're a menace, you're louder than all of Hell gathered for Judgement Day and still, somehow, you're unbelievably kind and you are as soft and smooth as velvet and I envy how shamelessly you cry. The flames fade and what's left is an enticing hue of lilac.
I believe there's something more than vulgar lust behind the fact that I'm so happy to tolerate your hands on my skin. I'm afraid of being stained, I don't know where this idea comes from but I'm afraid when anyone else touches me I don't know, it hurts to write it out, when anyone else touches me it feels like my skin burns, I become as stiff as a rabbit pretending to be dead, my throat closes on itself, I hate it, I'm afraid even as I write it out, how come I feel so safe when it comes to you?
As I grow tired of asking myself pointless questions I keep staring at you and you keep looking down or aside. Your head is slightly bent towards the floor and you remind me of a mournful angel that is half-alive, there's gold-leaf on your lips, a broken sword at your side and two fresh scars on your shoulderblades and only a fool would not understand that you weren't meant for such a cruel and ugly place, and it makes sense that you'd rather be somewhere else, somewhere less disappointing, but at this point of this reverie I grab your porcelain wrist and pretend not to hear the cracking as my grip tightens and I say they've got to be somewhere, I mean, what they took from you, and I've picked up the hobby of sewing, and even though I'm careless and impatient and the result will be messy and not very pleasant to look at I promise that when I find them I will give them back to you and stitch them onto your back.