Dig Your Fingernails Into My Chest and Pull Out My Heart

Now Pull Out My Heart

Steven tried. He really did. He tried to be better. It didn't work. Two weeks. He had been ok for that long. He had kept thoughts of John out of his mind. Then, the end of those two weeks after September 5th hit, and he went back down. He couldn't help himself. He reopened old wounds, tearing at his skin so he could feel any sort of release, or anything at all. And, every time he did, every time he stuck his fingers into his injuries and threw his head back in pleasure, he would think of what John said to him that day. 'Kill yourself' echoed in his head as his back arched in his chair and he'd be brought to that sweet finish that sends a temporary bliss through him, but only for a couple of seconds.

And, he tried again. And it worked. For a month, his mind was off John. He had shoved his journals away, locking off anything that could possibly remind Steven of him. He stayed inside, or in the backyard, writing stories of romance and requited love and childish things, just anything that would pull that beautiful boy from his head.

Then, he relapsed again when they ran into each other. Halloween of all times. He had remained clean, he was eating, he was staying healthy, and his wounds stay closed. He hadn't hurt anyone for a while. But, as Jackie insisted, they both went out Trick-Or-Treating. That's when they crossed paths. His sister had gone on ahead, complaining that he was 'too slow'. Steven had taken a short cut to get to where Jackie was going quicker. He had bumped into John, who had been out with his friends. They simply stared at him, before running off like he threatened them.

When he had gotten home that night, he retreated to the shower. He clawed at the tiles, chipping and breaking his nails until his fingers bled, and then he dragged them up his stomach and across his shoulder blades, shuddering as his skin split and blood bubbled up. He once again tore open the scabbed knife wound on his side, whimpering out John's name as he thrusted into it, once, twice, his broken nails tearing up the muscles lining the inside of his body more and more, until, when he finally pulled out, they looked like a baby fresh born, still covered in it's mother's placenta. Embarrassingly enough, he tried something new that night. He kept his hand dirtied with blood and gored tissue, keeping it that way till he reached his bed. He had propped himself up, before shoving those fingers into his mouth. He could taste iron, and blood and it was all sickly sweet and good, and Steven wondered to himself 'Is this what I, as a human, taste like?' He's not ashamed to admit that he discovered that maybe veganism wasn't his route if this is what meat tasted like.

November was harder for him. He stayed inside. He full on refused to eat. His brain flip-flopped back and forth, calling him vile and disgusting sometimes, and misunderstood and wonderful the next. He only knows that the first part is right.

When he bumped into John twice in the same week, Steven really had to restrain himself. Once was at a tea shop, where they simply brushed shoulders, but it was enough material to get him off that night. The second was at the bookstore that he worked at. He had been restocking shelves, John pushing past behind him. Steven had to resist the urge to slam him into one of the bookcases and take him there, as his hand gracefully danced over the back of his thigh. He doesn't know if it was on purpose or not. He'd like to imagine it was; that John was secretly sending him signals that maybe, just maybe, he also felt romantically and sexually towards him, the way that Steven feels towards John. All he knows is that he's never spent so long in the bathroom at work before. Every time he whimpered and moaned, he hoped that John would walk through those doors and join him. A simple, idiotic fantasy, but one that he had none the less.

But, when he had gotten home that night, he was devastated with himself. Disgusted. That's when he decided to do it. His body, thin and broken, 97 pounds of skeletal, torn flesh with a sickening mentality and psychotic behaviors and an illness that would kill him anyway, he wanted to do what John said he should do. God, he loves him so much, he's listen to anything he demanded. Even this.