My black and silver pen scratched the words onto the too-white paper, the ink striking, defining. It hurt, but it was the good kind of pain, the kind of pain that made sense. The more harsha feeling, a love, the more tender it becomes. The more brutal, all the more sweet. I paused, my pen hovering uncertainly before falling onto the paper with a soft, slow thud. I brought my fingers up to slowly drag back my soft sweater sleeves that perpetually cover my wrists, and deliberately ran my soft finger over my skin, caressing the gentle, raised scars that criss-crossed my arms in mesmerizing patterns. Then I shook my sleeves back over my arms to hide my secrets, twisted, yes, but lovely, gentle. I picked my pen back up from where it lay, waiting, on my paper, and gripped it purposefully between my fingers, poised. I raised my eyes to look up at the front of the room, up at her and where she stood. Her hands waved expressively in the air as she spoke, and her lips quirked slightly, and those fingers flippantly brushed her dark hair back from her dark eyes. I stared for a moment longer, and allowed a ghost of a smile to grace my dry lips.
YOU ARE READING
Her
Short StorySome say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless, aching need. I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed. It's the heart afrai...
