My heart blistered as you peeled away the layers which were supposed to protect me, but it's my fault anyway, dear, because you were the sun and I stared at you for too long and now everyone sees the burn you left on my skin.
It would be cliche if I said it was magical, but it wasn't. It would be cliche if I could say your fingers had been sure and smart and deft. It would be cliche if I could say I'd whispered the right things in your ear and against your(more) lips.
But I can't.
Because your soft, warm hands fumbled all over me and my words fumbled over my tongue, which, incidentally, didn't know what to do with yours because my mouth wasn't big enough for two tongues.
I wish I could have said we were good at it, but we weren't. You said the wrong things and I said too much and you touched too much and I wish I had touched more.
I wish I could blush and be a cliche because cliches come with endings, and usually they're happy, unless they're monumentally sad, but at least the ending comes, unlike us, because we don't seem to have an ending, we just drag on and on and take turns being hopeful but never at the same time. (less)
We moved fast together, fast like mercury. Like the silver fluid that beads up and shimmers and slides and seeped under my skin like poison that I knew all along would kill me, but I wanted it anyway because it was beautiful while it lasted, and wouldn't I rather(more) be blinded by something deadly than live without ever seeing?
You were slippery like mercury, disappearing just when my fingers tried to find purchase and coming back just when I decided maybe I didn't need silver, maybe black and brown could be enough, but there you were reminding me it wasn't.
I was easily attached like mercury, forming bonds with every chemical I touched and especially with you because we bonded first and I bonded strongest but you didn't, because you were magnetic and while you were drawing me in, you were being torn away by everything else you heard calling to you.
We were like mercury together but we were more like mercury apart because we could see that we corroded each other and we learned that mercury is pretty to look at and maybe in theory it's a good idea to touch, but if you're smart, you stay away from it, even though you'll always wonder what it might have been like to feel it on your fingertips again. If you're sane you'll believe the science. But if you're a dreamer, you'll always wonder what might have become if you'd both tried harder and broken every rule of chemistry. (less)
They say you're not a pretty boy, but they haven't seen you when you write. They haven't seen your blonde eyelashes lit by the slotted sunlight coming through my blinds. They haven't seen words swirling in your eyes and in your thoughts and, eventually, on the page. They haven't(more) seen you like I have. They haven't watched you bite your perfect, full lower lip when you pause to think, until you look up at me and tell me that sometimes, you don't know what to write next and you have to look at me until you get inspired. They don't know that nothing is more beautiful than the words suggesting that I could inspire you. They don't consume the sight of you stretched out on my bed the way I do. They don't sneak a glance at the sliver of your stomach that shows where your t-shirt rides up, or the trail of hair that starts at your waistband and leads somewhere I've never been. They don't know you the way I do. They don't see it. I do. (less)
The waves of inferiority come in like a storm surge and fade like a whisper and I'm left breathless and half drowning because I'm paralyzed, paralyzed to move, paralyzed to act, paralyzed to take any risk at all, useless to do anything but think of how terrified I am(more) of failure and how that terror is my biggest failure of all. (less)
In my veins
Not since you left,
(more) You gave consciousness to every capillary
Thrilling in our lips when they touched
And our eyes when they met.
You intoxicated me with
A drug called lust
That hummed in my veins.
For you, my body sang.
And now that you're gone
And the pain of withdrawal
Has faded like writing in sand
While the waves of missing you
Over my shores,
Now that you're gone,
My veins are cold
Like my lips and my hands
And the tears that ran down my cheeks --
He was ahead of his time, they'll say, when I'm a real artist - or maybe when I'm dead. He saw what we didn't. He knew. That's what they'll say when they think of me. That's when they'll realize they were wrong about me for all those years of(more) judging and ostracizing and laughing behind their hands. Isn't that how it always goes? All those people who were freaks in their childhoods and turned out to be genius? But I look at Cassidy, who has scars on her wrists and writes beautiful poetry that she doesn't know I'm reading over her shoulder during biology class every day, I look at Julian, who flinches out of the football's way in gym but quietly wins every district math competition and then sits silently disappointed in homeroom while the varsity football MVP's are recognized over loudspeaker and his name goes unsaid... I look at them and at myself and I wonder if any of us will survive long enough to get to say "I told you so." Then I look down at the paper in front of me and the drawing on it, made with my hand moving methodically across the page from right to left, filling in what I see with barely a thought between eyes and fingers and pencil. Someday, I'll be an artist, but for now I'm an autistic boy whose art teacher says I'm not doing contour lines first like we're supposed to, tell me I'm doing it wrong because she doesn't see that that's how my brain knows to draw, from right to left, like logic - easy, calming. Familiar. Familiar like the scars contouring Cassidy's wrists. Someday, I'll be an artist, or maybe I'll be dead. (less)