Last I looked, I wasn't Yun Kouga, so I guess these guys aren't mine, either. *sigh* For Anonymous.
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You tease and you flirt, but do you ever follow through? To you, this is all a game, some strange attempt at reminding me that life is supposed to be fun.
This isn't fun.
Every step I take, you retreat two. I can never hope to catch you. And I'm not sure I should want to. Do you know why I hate butterflies? They're elusive things, fun to chase, but easily crushed when caught.
I don't want to crush you.
Beneath the tease, I can see the anger, simmering, the rage at those who would destroy art. Because that is what I am to you, is it not? Your piercings, your tattoo, the wild color of your hair, these are all an attempt to celebrate the body, a paean to the beauty of the human form, but my scars are not like that. Every mark upon my body is a negation of self, of what I was meant to become. How can they do that to a human being?
That angers you.
Frightens you.
And it makes you jealous.
Jealous, because someone else has left their indelible mark upon me. Someone not you.
You laugh as I bring home my broken toys, the children in need of mending, the sad, pretty crushed butterflies and broken winged birds, and you say, that's fine, it's all right, I know you need this. I do. And it is fine, as long as it's a parade of nameless, pretty faces, as long as I do not name them, give them importance in my heart, it's all right with you. But you hate it when I call them. I see the petty jealousy flare when I give them meaning with words, because you know, despite my art, that words are my true gift, mine to command.
Ritsuka.
Keep avoiding his name, Kio. Don't let him be more important than the last tatterdemalion waif to lie upon our couch, dangle his feet from our bath, curl up like a feral thing beneath my sheets. It won't change anything.
He needs me. And I need to be needed.
I need someone who will cling to me, who will fade away without me, someone to give me a place in the world. Everyone uses me and leaves me behind, but I don't think he will. Not like you. Someday.
Don't give me that look. You know in your heart it is so.
You may always want me, I may always be welcome, desired, but you will never need me. And that's all right. You tease, and you flirt, and you never follow through, and I never follow after, back you into a corner, force your affection, pin you down. I won't do that to you.
I'm content to watch you flutter about me, elusive and too fragile to touch, as I stand here firmly on the ground.
Bird in hand.