He looked at her and wondered how something so beautiful could still exist in what he thought was a life filled with the disease of misery. Everything was ugly, nothing returned unscathed from the curse of living, but there she was. He looked at her scars, and he remembered how his own were buried, hidden under meaningless pleasantries. Disgusted by his own bruises, he thought he could never bring himself to love those of another, but he adored the marks that gently cascaded down her soul. She was dripping with pain, consumed by struggle and she was magnificent.

It was then that he realised she was not beautiful in spite of it, but because. He didn’t want to fix her, unusually so, the perfectionist within him was silent. Her flaws became the markings of bravery he wished he could wear as proudly as she did. He didn’t envy her, he didn’t want to walk in her shoes, but he understood. Silently, she told him all her secrets. It was in his heart beat, if you wanted to find them, the constant pounding. she pulsated through his veins, the dark red slowly moving through him, he kept her stories within him.

There was a charm in the pieces she carried, her puzzled story, had found a home where it made sense. He wondered if this is what love felt like. Incapable of breath,  he was suffocating but he didn’t struggle. He, just like her, didn’t wish to be saved. And possibly love was simply the choice to die because she would have the honour of taking away his very last breath. He could not imagine how he had carried on without this gentle suffocation. Growing accustomed to being out of his depth, he now found himself buried beneath her mounds of unwanted memories.

By m_Y Broken Mind


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