There is a place between my gut and my heart that hunches my shoulders whenever it longs to connect on a deeper level. I've used the strumming of a guitar or the tone of a voice to relieve the guard around my emotions.
But then it isn't enough anymore and I'm left raw, hands cupped, holding vivid images of people from my past.
It isn't easy to touch them in my mind alone, and sometimes I wonder if I am supposed to remember them at all. It doesn't seem right that I should relive pieces of their lives without consent. But I guess we all do that. I'm not as separate as I think I am.
_________
"You don't belong among pretty things," he told me.
I kissed the patch of white skin below his eye.
He picked up the guitar and stretched the skin that had been grafted onto his hand sometime before I met him. I spread my legs across the thin plaid fabric on the couch and tucked my feet under his crossed leg. It was Saturday night and we had nothing better to do than hide in his house with our demons.
A voice like rain drizzling on a parked car filled the living room. He tried to tuck a loose dreadlock behind an ear that wasn't there. I relaxed and let a damaged spirit escape a beautiful body.
This had to be the place I was born...in a house where neither of us cared if the lights were on. He was physically scarred, carrying a dead wife and child in his heart. I hid my damage behind flawless skin and taut muscle.
I needed to show my ugliness. He needed to feel beautiful sitting next to someone else.
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