Fading Scars

You were you again the day after. You laughed and joked and we verbally sparred. We were the most 'us' we could be. It was glorious. The cuts all over your left wrist were still there and you insisted on displaying them like a medal of honour or something. Something you were strangely proud of. Look what I did. Look how sad I am. Here's the proof. You guys didn't believe me but see, here's where it shows. Little red lines like lots of little pen marks made in an ink war conducted on your wrist, like we played when we were kids. I rolled your jacket sleeve up because you said it hurt when the fabric made contact with those little red lines and you made a joke about being 'very Don Johnson'. I said you were more like Chandler Bing due to the 'using humour as a defense mechanism thing'. You laughed and agreed. Pop culture references abound, Jeff Goldblum impressions in play.

That night I lay there in your arms and waited for you to fall asleep (I know that once you do that gentle twitching thing you do that you're unlikely to be roused) and then slipped from out under the sheets and slid onto your cold floor in my pants and your t-shirt and I started to cry.

You're too in love with your misery to be with me.

We've spent countless hours asleep in one another's arms, fucking, laughing, fighting. None of that means anything to you.

As I write, weeks later, I've still got the scars and bruises on my legs from where we got too carried away that last time. That last time I saw you and I could still see a bit of you left, a bit of you not ravaged, a bit of you that still wanted saving. I hate that I chose to save myself instead.

I want those scars to fade. I want to forget.

I still want you.