i.
the first time i felt you was between two anonymous brick walls in the middle of the city. the lights were nonexistent and the only sound louder than the echoing music was my breathing. the rest was waves of vibrations beneath our feet and a battle for dominance that i was never going to win.
you were stronger than me.
you’re always stronger than me.
ii.
i take you home and pretend that the apartment is still mine when you’re there and that the bed sheets only tangle up one body at a time. do you believe me? or can you still see right through the front of my skull? you tell me that it’s invisible, and that i shouldn’t waste lies on mind readers.
iii.
you press your fingers into my flesh and pretend that my bones will never break beneath the pressure. i wonder if you’re trying to embed your fingerprints into my skin the same way you’ve pressed words into the slots between my ribs. can you feel me watching you? you never watch back.
iv.
sometimes i think you’re much more beautiful from afar, when i can’t tell whether your eyes are dull or a simple shade of grey. i hope my eyes are more beautiful up close. i’d hate for someone like me to be disappointed.
you don’t laugh very often, not even when your favourite author slips a witty line into the novel you’re holding between your fingers. is that why your eyes are dull? am i supposed to make you laugh?
i’ve never been particularly funny.
v.
i don’t expect you to run, but i don’t expect you to come home either. you keep your things in an apartment on the other side of the city, locking away the only pieces that will explain who you are. i knock on the door three times before realizing it is unlocked. do you trust the world not to steal from you, or are you hoping it will?
you’re not home, and i don’t leave any fingerprints on your books of poetry or half-destroyed canvases. why haven’t you told me you’re an artist?
vi.
i tell you i went to your apartment. you tell me i’m clingy and need to mind my own business. the world is vast and littered with more significant life forms than you, so why have i filled myself up with the colour of your eyes and the smell of your skin? you’re a stupid little girl, you tell me, shoving me against the cracked leather couch when I try to apologize.
i cry because i am a stupid little girl.
you settle into the cushion opposite me and don’t leave until i pretend to fall asleep.
vii.
i pretend i’m not home in the late hours of the night and i hope you don’t know enough about me to guess i’d rather read than join the loud city. you knock on the door several times and attempt wiggling the doorknob like it’s not made out of hot coals but i’ve never really trusted the world the way you do. you call my name and sigh and ask me to open up if i’m home and sigh again when i don’t.
viii.
you catch me on my way downtown and I pretend to be too busy to talk. your fingerprints still litter my skin like a crime scene.
ix.
this time, when your knuckles thud heavily against my door, i keep as still as i can and try not to think. i don’t want you reading my mind the way you always do, when my words are hollow and my skull is nothing but an invisible shell. you ask me to open up. when your request is answered with silence, you use your manners; please, I have something to show you.
x.
i cry when you read me your poetry and you stop mid-sentence to stare at me with wide, glossy eyes. the last time you saw me cry you pretended the white walls were speaking to you and that my whimpers were gusts of wind fitting through the crevices of the cracked windows. you continue to read warily, stealing glances of me from under your eyelashes, watching that my porcelain skin doesn’t crack or shatter.
and for once you’re watching me, and I wonder if you see anything you’ve previously missed. do you know the colour of my eyes? you’re more familiar with the bruises on my hips and the scar across my spine.
your lips stop moving and i try to remember the last time i kissed you. my collarbone has week-old marks but my lips have not felt bruised in ages. i think about trying, but you are also quicker than i am, and your lips are much softer. you kiss me like i’m your mother’s fine china and for once keep your fingerprints to yourself.
