Ichor

☪

Sunday morning-
I sit at the cherry wood table as the rain kisses the rooftop and window panes. The newspaper is laid in front of me, words a skew on the grey filmy parchment. My coffee is dark, blackened with only a pinch of sugar. Bittersweet. My legs are wrapped in black knee high socks that cover up my scratched legs. Cuts and red lines mark my shins and bloody knees that sting at the humid air. Black Lace underwear hides purple scars sewn into my hips from days past. A white v-neck hangs off of my shoulders, bunched at the bottom as it is too long for my torso. A tan chest is barely concealed by the deep cut in the fabric, but this appearance I carry as I sit in the cherry wood chair alarms me none. Ichorous raw lips lay upon my face along with my tattooed eyeliner and thick eyelashes. Snowy teeth gnaw at the flesh, Blood splitting from the derma of my lips. Hair the color of fear channels down my neck and back, teasing the edges of my bony blades in unhinged curls. My skin smolders at the touch of my cotton socks. Newborn scars cry in streams of red and yearn for attention. I sip my expresso delicately as I feel liquid slurring down my kneecaps and shins, collecting in pools at my ankles. Thick black socks hide my little secret, like a true friend. Clothes hide me, mask me like a perfume masks a smell. Cotton and polyester and nylon fabrics arrange me like flowers, bright and happy, yet I am delicate. I am a black rose. Dark and gloomy, shattering with thorns to protect the wicked creature.
He arrives from the bland wooden hallway, each step a increasing tap to the glossed floor. His hair is rugged, matted to his forehead in a struggle to keep the volume it once had the day before. His chest stood bare, allowing his muscular figure to take place in the dim lighted room, his back and shoulders equally brawn to his abdomen. The only thing that stood on the way of a godlike body was slits, lines sprayed along his back. They were faded scars, looking the way the sky does when an airplane cracks the open air. Small lines of the remains burned into his skin forever, red like rum, maddened lines that cursed under their breathe and stared at you through closed lids. A pair of joggers hung off off his defined hips. I enjoy those lines, black with intensity, a curved V into his flesh, an imprint of physical accuracy. His feet were not covered, but I dare not look at them, I shouldn't not look at his completion either. I am forbidden to let my eyes wander from my focuses. I have failed him in his only command, his first wish.
I manage to meet his eyes, already knowing what I will find there. Disappointment, as I have done what he asks I do not do. His orbs are golden with Aqua waves and prickling icicles from the greatest winter woods. Eyes like these are heartbreakingly dead. They are blinded eyes, unforgiving orbs, powerful irises that remind me of my responsibilities daily. His orbs break my strained walls as he cracks his lips to open a smile, not big enough to show his teeth, but to redden his lip fragments into shining pieces of glass. I have never seen his teeth all together before. Not placed in a line with curtain drawn lips, only when his voice carries itself out like a smoke on rare occasion, When he does speak.
"Hello love"