You're hurting and I can tell, even though you try to hide it. You're hiding it because you don't want to seem like there's any drawback to your decision, you don't want to give me a reason to tell you that what you did was wrong. I know that's why you're hiding your pain because I'm good at reading you. As good as I am with reading bedtime stories, poems and books with big writing. Well, books with big writing and pictures. I would never ever tell you that you did something wrong- you get enough of thoughts like that from yourself and Quinn and I don't ever want to add to the pressure that's already pressing down on your chest.
You tried to hide from me when I first got back from motocross touring. You kept your blinds closed, stayed under the covers and told me that you were sick. I knew you were lying, my picture book because I could see the pain you felt, I could almost feel it too. When I accidently brushed against your chest and you cried out I finally knew exactly what you were hiding. I didn't mind, I thought you looked beautiful no matter what, even when you had a dark purple and red bruise growing between your breasts, running down towards your stomach but curling before it got there.
It's been a few weeks; I think you thought it would be all good by now because I can see you worrying, see you pulling and tugging at your special bra even though it hurts you. I want to tell you not to worry but Quinn is bursting through the door and yelling at you and her words feel like a bruise on my chest. She yells at you until me and you match San, she yells until I want to yell back at her; to tell her that you're not stupid or pathetic or anything like that but there's a weight on my chest that matches yours so I just look down at the floor. I wish I could be braver for you because you look so sad and broken and so tiny, the bruise starting to reach your belly button and tears running down and soaking into your skin.
When Quinn leaves I walk over and hug you. You wince but I don't care because I haven't been able to touch you in too long and I miss your skin and your smell and the way you look at me and make me feel naked, even if I am wearing clothes. My fingers press under your bra and I tug it off; I try and be gentle but it's tight. You hold back your gasp to make me feel better and it only makes me feel worse.
Once it's off I can tell you feel better even though your arms are starting to wrap around your bruised chest. There's no swelling anymore; Quinn told me that right after the surgery they were swollen but that you were too out of it to really care. Now it's just the bruise that's left, and the pain but I need to feel you, need you to feel me and know I'm real and that I don't care what size your boobs are. When you're naked and I'm naked I hug you again. This time you gasp for a different reason and I can feel the electricity running between us that made it happen. You still feel perfect and I run my hands over every part of you I can reach, my fingers extra soft once I reach your chest.
"Britt," you whisper, grabbing my hands before they can leave your skin. You pull them close to you, hard against your chest and then make me squeeze gently. You feel different but the noise you make is still the same and you still move the same way against me. I'm worried about hurting you but your face is calm and I feel your nipple harden against my palm. I've forgotten how amazing you feel and the new weight in my hand feels just as beautiful as you. For a second I stop, run my fingers down until they brush against the scars. You can barely see them, just a slightly raised red line travelling underneath your breasts. You breathe in but I don't think you meant to because I can hear it shake.
I want to tell you it's okay, that they look beautiful and perfect and that chicks totally dig scars anyway but I remember that you're not gay, that it's just me with no feeling and before I can think of something that includes boys, you're kissing me. Soft and hard and heavy and bruising. My hands are in between your breasts now and I can feel your heart beating, pushing against my palms. I want to tell you that you're kissing me like your new boobs but I don't think you will understand so I just slide my fingers into your hair, run my palm down your spine and pull you until we're melded together.
"I'm sorry," you whisper and it's not until I notice you crying that I realise I'd said 'me too'.