Stop touching me, please.
Dark hair, long enough to obscure the eyes and darken the cheeks. Rage Black. Fragile asexual body, pale as milk. Blue-black veins web through skin of the delicate side of the wrist. Shoulders drawn, pulled tight by thin glass fingers, legs folded elegantly to the side. Neck exposed: one blue-black vein.
Serene lips, quiescent visage flesh. Withdrawn, hidden. Silent. Unreachable. Frightened.
Inside: churning, sickening, decaying. Violated.
Stop, I donít want to.
Eyes glinting, untrusting, submissive. Eyes so light, so clear, nearly colorless. Blue, thin liquid blue. Eyes heavy with thick sweeping lashes. Eyes so sorrowful and delicate with hate, roses wilt before them, darkening to charcoal.
A wounded coiling snake, suffering escape.
He touched me, mother never knew it. He said I was like a girl. He said he loved my eyes. Loved my eyes. Everyone loves my eyes. He said they were beautiful. Beautiful. Everyone touches me because of my eyes. Everyone says Iím like a girl, because of my eyes. Theyíre too beautiful for me to be a boy. My body does not matter. It doesnít matter. They still touch me. Itís the only thing I know. My eyes bring them to me. My eyes let them touch me. Let them soil me.
I will take my eyes. I will take them and burn them, then crush their ashes in my hands. My fingers will break and shatter. I will let the blood run forever, until my body is cleansed. I will cut out my eyes and burn them. Burn them.