Word Count 408

For Sam for GGE. ily


When they look at you.

On the street.

Or on the train.

Or in the twelfth job interview this month.

No matter where.

When they look at you,

they see battle scars,

evidence of a war you wage with yourself

every month.

When they look at you,

they see claws, teeth, jagged tearing of skin,

hair ripped from your scalp,

robes that are too big,

a man who is too poor

too shabby, too hungry, too damaged

too old for your age.

They see something to pity,

but not someone who they could employ, or trust, or love.

Not someone they could relate to.

But they have no idea.

Nails can only scratch the surface.

The truth is they can't sink deep enough,

they can't quite reach

the itch,

the wound that just won't heal

because once you think it scabs over,

he comes back.

He always has this way of coming back around,

barking mad with a grip meant for prison bars

and not for former lover's hands

but you won't complain

because

twelve years and he can still tear you to shreds

with just one look.

Because when he looks at you,

he sees moonlight shining through boarded up window eyes

and claws tearing at wooden chairs at 2 am

leaving bruises on your wrists, and blood on your hands

-a love story

(a romantic tragedy)

written in indigo and scarlet ink.

He sees a man who used to spend new moons curled up in his arms

breathing in the scent of youth and cigarettes and freedom

grasping on to love like a vice.

(and who knows? maybe it was)

And these days…

these days you like to pretend you are all of these things,

that there is something beautiful to be salvaged

from the wreckage he left,

that the lips that kiss you goodnight sometimes call you Moony for old time's sake

that the grey eyes seeking yours belong to someone else.

You like to pretend that when she looks at you,

she doesn't see the crime scene he made of your ribcage,

the outline of his body where your heart ought to be.

You like to think that nobody sees any of it,

that the physical scars are enough of a distraction,

and that nobody can see through to the heart of the matter.

And maybe they don't.

But when you look at your reflection,

all you see is his shadow.

And nothing else.