forthebook's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- scars He runs his fingers over your wrists as if his touch could somehow make the jagged lines recede back into your skin. Softly, gently, he grazes them and looks at you so sadly. He doesn't reprimand you often, he doesn't lash out the way other often have, he just touches them to acknowledge what's there and then wraps his arms around you and makes all of it go away. He looks across your body and his eyes linger on your scars. He only asked once what they were from. Down your legs and adorning your ankles, like peices of sadistic jewelry, the scars stretch and arc, his gaze makes you feel insecure about them when you never have before. "They used to look like socks" you tell him, repeating the joke that you often use to soften the mood created by the ankle high scars. Socks, indeed. Bloody socks is what you always think of when you step out of the shower. Everytime you're together, he checks you. His touch runs up and down your arms, your back, your legs, your ankles and feet - searching for anything you might be trying to hide. He does it subtlely unless he finds something new but you know he does it everytime you're alone. "Fresh cuts?" is all he asks about them, as if admitting the truth then excuses your failure to stop one more time and then witholding the information from him. You nod or give the knowing glance, as if he needs the confirmation - it's obvious that they are always fresh cuts. He touches them hesitantly and you refrain from wincing. He kisses your nose and tells you not to do it anymore, as if it's no more indecent than when you got into the cookie jar at age four. 11:21 p.m. - 2004-08-02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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