Rice paper skin, glass bones and no soft edges to keep the delicate balance safe. She's jagged and every word threatens to tear through her fragile exterior and I think of her standing still, frozen and paralyzed with fear, all of it employed just to keep herself safe.
I feel a void, a large wasting emptiness that separates her from me, and a wild throbbing ache settles underneath my breastbone. I hover around her with anxiety, spinning round like a top, feeling crazed, desperately wanting to smooth out the wrinkles in her paper skin and to make her smile like I always could. I can't reach and my struggling pushes us farther apart. I pray for a miracle some nights, some days, some moments, hoping simply that some of the weight will be lifted from my shoulders and insight will be granted. I'm as confused as ever. I feel guilt and shame and a mortification like I could never express. I lay in my bed some nights and think of boiling my skin, of what it would take to make myself clean. Would she want me then, or am I forever ruined? My skin is dark and spotted with my judgement and I cry softly to myself as I remind myself that she has skin pure as snow. She always has and I never will.
When you can't forgive yourself why would anyone forgive you? "The beginning of the end," I think quietly and with ill-humor, looking down at my thighs with a wistful sort of nostalgia. I imagine getting small, and I remember what its like to void myself of the guilt that comes from broken relationships. I close the door behind me and hang my head and satisfy the need to eliminate my agony in a way tears could never satiate. Hate settles back down around my heart and I feel the strange gnawing sensation of a rotted body twisting around the soul I tried so hard to make pure. I look in the mirror and my eyes are puffy and I turn away, unable to stomach the sight. I make myself sick too, and I always have.