ribbons

A tall skinny boy thinks im cute. he thinks i hate him but thats just the way i look at people, like i hate them. and mostly i do, or think that i do. anyway, he’s cute and tall and i want to hug him for a long time but only because he seems like the only person I’d let touch me. He asked for a hug. I backed away. Maybe later, I said. I have issues of self-tolerance. 

Today he wrote on my skin. I looked at him, looking at my skin as he wrote on it, scared. Frightened. My skin, my repulsive skin, and his eyes were on it. I pulled away. 

"Hey. I wasn't finished." 

I walked away. I couldn't feel my legs. I felt a chill where the black marker touched me; the art of his hands. I felt the weight of his distance behind my back, the weight of his eyes and expectations.

I didn't read my arm until I got home.

slightly smudged and unfinished, it read:

"the pain of being on earth just long enough to comprehend the full terror of unknown oblivion is somwhow tolerable now that I kno-"

I stared at my skin for an unbearably long time.

I took a shower.

 His art came off of my skin under the warm running water in black streams, staining my skin.