In the dark of the room, Yao brought the knife onto his skin and drew a thin red line.
Red.
His flag flew above his house, waving in the wind through all weather, like the scarf of a certain someone.
Long.
The days seemed to stretch out and lengthen when his lover was not there.
Thin.
Flimsy paper words did not sate Yao's hunger for that man, that nation.
Hurt.
Pain shot through Yao's heart when that nation admitted his love for another.
Cry.
Yao's eyes dripped with tears of rage and rejection.
Scab.
His heart healed crookedly, twisted-like and sad.
Cover.
Flapping sleeves pulled low over his arms hid the scars.
Act.
Fake smiles covered up the dark and the hate.
Innocence?
That nation's new lover did not know what was wrong.
Failed consolation.
Twig-brittle words cracked and turned to dust when that nation tried to comfort Yao.
Closed.
The doors, the windows, his heart. All shut and silent.
Crush and burn.
Attraction did not leave, nor did the ache of dismissal.
Shut in his room, Yao pulled the knife up and went for the bandages.