I Can Never Finish What I Sta

Sometimes I love being wired like a guy: forgetting women do things like have feelings and bite their nails, when they’re just fresh snow for you to play and step on. I hate beauty marks. Cuts, bruises, scabs. Now those are beautiful. I don’t want to make them, I just like the way healed scars brush against the grain, brush against my fingers. I just love when a woman’s skin tells a story better than her lips can.

Her body was wild as a fire, jumping from every nook and crest of her sleeveless blouse and skinny jeans. The way she talked was something of a sirens call: accented. She doesn’t talk, she purrs. Her tongue coo’s between words at a steady rhythm, like the heart beating in her chest.

“Well basically,” click-bump, “The character is expressing himself the only way he can ‘cuz,” click-bump, ”Words words words words words.” click-click-bump-bump.

She was wrong, but with that smile she had a right to be. Some women realize their beauty comes with the entitlement to be heard – no matter the consequence. I hated that. But there, at the curve of her shoulder just where a shimmering black bra strap came out to say a hello, I saw two thin cuts lining down her fair skin. Two stories, swelled from years of healing, waiting to be touched and heard.

Come, tell me what they’ve done to you.