fiction
Seeing as how i go to school where i do, i'm surrounded by talented people who like to share. Sometimes it's depressing, sometime's it's inspiring. Loosely based on equal parts fact and fiction, i wrote a little
Two days ago it was a satisfying hue of purple, like a ripe plum at the end of August. Right now it’s a sick shade of green, with layers of blue underneath. I enjoy watching the progression of colors, and I feel sad when they finally start to fade. Sometimes, in an effort to keep the color, I’ll hit myself a little bit-not much, it’s more of a sentimental action anyway. I like prodding the colored areas, invoking the small pressure of pain. I like seeing the foreign surprise of color hours later. I like the bruises.
He doesn’t understand why, and I can’t explain it to him, just that I want it. He doesn’t like hurting me that way and will instinctively apologize. He doesn’t realize that it’s no different from the other ways he hurts me, the ones for which he won’t apologize.
I don’t mind, really; it’s a source of comfort. It’s become so common, so ordinary to feel emotional torment. Physical pain is just another way to remember him. Nobody seems to understand, but that’s only because nobody knows. I can’t be bothered to tell everyone who asks, so I ignore their concern and push aside their condolences. The more color I see, the stronger I am-it’s a concept they just can’t grasp.
Though, I did tell somebody once. He was making my sandwich and commented on how I must be so happy as I was smiling so much. Laughing, I told him, “I’m not smiling because I’m happy, I’m smiling because I’m freaking out.” In an abridged version, I confessed my heartache, interjecting condiments between my sorrows. “I feel your pain. Go do something fun, be with people you love. That guy is a jerk,” said the sandwich man, his words dripping with compassion. I thanked him for the meal and ministry, turned on my heels, and walked away with a wave.
After that, I was bewildered that I continually subjected myself to hurt from a boy who couldn’t understand. Of all people, he should understand. But he didn’t-the sandwich guy did. I didn’t want more realizations like this. I didn’t want to give up the precious moments, the pain. Nobody knew we were fucking, not a single soul. It was a secret I both cherished and despised. All I had were words and memories, secret meetings that melted into time. The bruises were physical proof that he loved me, and even those disappeared. I had nothing else. Please understand, when I say I like the bruises.
I hope it's not too crappy.
Two days ago it was a satisfying hue of purple, like a ripe plum at the end of August. Right now it’s a sick shade of green, with layers of blue underneath. I enjoy watching the progression of colors, and I feel sad when they finally start to fade. Sometimes, in an effort to keep the color, I’ll hit myself a little bit-not much, it’s more of a sentimental action anyway. I like prodding the colored areas, invoking the small pressure of pain. I like seeing the foreign surprise of color hours later. I like the bruises.
He doesn’t understand why, and I can’t explain it to him, just that I want it. He doesn’t like hurting me that way and will instinctively apologize. He doesn’t realize that it’s no different from the other ways he hurts me, the ones for which he won’t apologize.
I don’t mind, really; it’s a source of comfort. It’s become so common, so ordinary to feel emotional torment. Physical pain is just another way to remember him. Nobody seems to understand, but that’s only because nobody knows. I can’t be bothered to tell everyone who asks, so I ignore their concern and push aside their condolences. The more color I see, the stronger I am-it’s a concept they just can’t grasp.
Though, I did tell somebody once. He was making my sandwich and commented on how I must be so happy as I was smiling so much. Laughing, I told him, “I’m not smiling because I’m happy, I’m smiling because I’m freaking out.” In an abridged version, I confessed my heartache, interjecting condiments between my sorrows. “I feel your pain. Go do something fun, be with people you love. That guy is a jerk,” said the sandwich man, his words dripping with compassion. I thanked him for the meal and ministry, turned on my heels, and walked away with a wave.
After that, I was bewildered that I continually subjected myself to hurt from a boy who couldn’t understand. Of all people, he should understand. But he didn’t-the sandwich guy did. I didn’t want more realizations like this. I didn’t want to give up the precious moments, the pain. Nobody knew we were fucking, not a single soul. It was a secret I both cherished and despised. All I had were words and memories, secret meetings that melted into time. The bruises were physical proof that he loved me, and even those disappeared. I had nothing else. Please understand, when I say I like the bruises.
I hope it's not too crappy.