Worlds collide when he looks into my eyes. That fire I feel in my soul when he touches me burns warmer than the sun and soothes my mind to a point of insanity. When he speaks, every syllable of his words pound in my ears, and later when I lay in bed they are all I can hear. Birds no longer sound as sweet when he's around, and water never tastes as poor.
Hatred as I have never felt before freezes and inflames my soul, sending course bile to my throat, and rage to burn in my eyes, when he looks at her. Envious tar, origin of such true of only the Devil himself, bruises my veins when I watch them touch. Their daily exchanges leave me oblivious to the world, unaware of my surroundings but vivid to the pain.
I follow his lead. To his brilliance, to his chambers, to his faults. My own, complete person that used to flourish has moulded seamlessly into his broken one. My hopes still dangle that this might make him one, this might make him feel. The chords haven't been cut, but I'm choking.
As our bodies intertwine, as have they done so many times before, and they will so many more times to come, I realize that I am letting myself die. He holds the ropes, but I'm fingering the dagger.
I martyr myself, my spirit, for a twisted, broken love. For him and his brilliance and his aptitude and his unconventional charm. And my unconventional attraction. But for him, boredom is his motivation. Boredom drove him to seduce the mind and interest of a girl, and is what also draws him to perfection. The perfection of a woman.
My face in the mirror shines pale and freckled against the moonlight, curls of coarse brown hair framing my small face. Eyes stare back, big and brown. My cheeks are too red, and my lips too large. I feel my stomach and small, closely spaced ribs. My hands pass over my breasts - small, undeveloped, uneven. I see the face and body of a child in my reflection. I cannot feel innocence, but I can see it.
I forget to breathe. I forget to eat. The marks on my body are becoming obvious to others. I don't hear things anymore. Everything tastes like him, and everything smells like him. I don't meet my friends' eyes, I only meet his. Because I know what I won't see. I won't see feeling. I won't see regret. I will see me. I see myself, and for a moment, the innocence that haunts me has left, and the woman I know I am is staring back at me. In his eyes, I can see my world.
Worlds collide when he look into my eyes. I forget her. I even forget he is broken, and I see him as whole, and satisfied, and loving. Nothing matters – the world I sacrificied doesn't seem like a memory I wish I could remember, and the friends I gave up were worth losing. I can even see our happiness. Our blossoming, undying love. Our children.
But then he looks away.