"Dont" I murmured, my hair falling from my shoulder and down to the small of my back, brushing against his hand. "Don't" I whispered through parted lips. My eye lashes fluttered closed, and I tilted my head back, anticipating the bitter sweet kisses I wasn't allowed. None came. "Really?" He's chiseled face was serious and old, his strong jaw tensed and he's brows furrowed. He was so perfect... I reached my hand up to erase the crinkles in his tanned forehead. "N-" His lips crushed into mine before allowing me too finnish. I knotted my fingers through his golden hair, never letting go. Lifting my legs up round his hips with his strong hands, he didn't stop kissing me for one second. The tangle of love and devastation mingeled in the salty fat tears, which fell freely from our entwined faces. I can't not Love you. I gasped in pain as he pushed me against the bark of the old oak, pulling at his hair painfully. I hated him. I hated loving the passion, I hated loving the not knowing. His teeth knicked my lip and I scratched at his arms, never allowing him the power. He would never be mine. I felt nothing but his attacks. The visous tear's at my skin. The bruises along my hips. I didn't know how we got back to the art studio, or when we had left the protective walls of the forest. I didn't care.
I didn't stop. I wouldn't stop. If only I was delusional enough to believe he could stay. To believe that he didn't have to go back to her. To my sister. But I couldn't believe. Pretending didn't work. This worked. This night of furious passion. Where I could give myself to him. When I could scratch at his body like the rips in my soul. He was my all. My anger. My passion. My love... But never unhappiness. He could never make me unhappy. He could make me scream, cry out, hit him, bite him but never unhappy. When I was with him happiness was always there. A searing, painfull joy. Hot enough to scold him. It couldn't scold me. I was already alight. On fire with his love. Aflame from his touch. Burning from his moans. Time stopped when I was with him, although hours passed in seconds. Why did I love him?
"I hate you," I sobbed into his shoulder, hours later. He layed there rigid. His eyes flutering from the tears that streamed down his face. I nesteled my head inbetween the bite marks that covered his shoulders. We wouldn't get away with it this time. She would notice. She already knows. She just choses to ignore it. How can she ignore it? Why couldn't she notice? Scream at us. At me. I had already hurt him enough... I let my bruised lips brush the butterfly bruises in his neck. Hes head rolled away from me in anguish, but he sighed blissfully as though my kisses could heal the pain. They couldn't. My lips could only hurt and destroy. I didn't bite him. I couldn't bring myself to hurt him any more. There was no anger left. Only the heaviness that sat in my stomach and the bile that never left the back of my throat. It made me want to kill myself. To die. But I couldn't. As long as he lived. I couldn't.
He fell asleep in my arms. Still crying when deep within his slumber. I hated his pain. I regretted his cuts. But I would do it all over again if it meant touching his body and letting myself feel, just for a night, what his love felt like. My long legs fell off the edge of his single bed, covered in gorgeous bruises, just a visual of what his hands felt like. My makeup was smeared and my ebony hair was strewn in a tangle across my shoulder, catching my liquid sorrow. I didn't cover myself up. If he awoke, then he would just see what he had already memerized so many times before. Just as I had memerized every curve of his large shoulders, and the way the shadows fell across his flawless stomach, and the smothness of his lean torso, and the soft patches at the insides of his wrists I could never harm. He was beautiful. His amber eyes and angry lips. The fustration that never left his face. I wanted him. All of him.
I ran my hand up and down the rows of books he obsessed over. He often read them to me, in his expressive velvety voice. Echoing in the most dramatic scenes, and whispering the most intense parts quietly to me, as though he were only moving his lips. As if I was special to him. As though he loved me. I squeazed my eye lids shut to hide the burning sensation that grew from behind them. His face wasn't innocent in sleep as many claimed their lovers were. Only wiser. As though he had gone through all the hardships in the world.
I averted my gaze to the girl that had been painted, sketched and chalked so many times, and now glared feircly from every little bit of space of wall in his art studio. She was beautiful. Not my sister. Maybe an angel whom he loved in private, inbetween loving me and my siblings that is. Her hair was tangle of darkness, threaded with different shades of night and fell in an angry mess over her bronzed, slim shoulders. She was slender and tall, not curvy, but willowy and soft. Her face, though, was angry, a gorgeous hatred that shone through her brown eyes and the dangerous curve to her plush lips. She had my face. But she was not me. She was magnificent. In one chalk sketch that over shadowed the rest, she had unfurled wings that spread out behind her, shining green and blue hues across the vast black fethers. She looked nothing like me. She was to exquisite and awe inspiring to be any thing like me. One, though, I recognised. it was the face of the girl I often saw in the mirror- not contorted with aungish, or passion, or rage. Not fiery or powerful. she looking broken. This was the smallest. The most shameful. It was drawn in soft regrettful lines, but she was bruised liberally, far worse than I was now. And his name was barely shadowed at the bottom of the crumpeled page, as if he wished it were someone elses.
I took it from the wall gently and placed one of his many confusing pencil's in the curve of my nervous hand. I never drew. Especially not on his art work. He had invited me too. When we yelled at each other, he had told me to draw over all of them and rip them to shreds. I never did though, just like the soft patches on the insides of his wrists. I refused to destroy them. I couldn't destroy that type of beauty, the type that made me weak in the knees and breathless. I just couldn't. But this picture couldn't be worse. It repulsed me, and with shakey hands I erased her lips and eyes. And after several trial and errors I was finnaly pleased with my work. Her eyes now staired upwards as if in awe. Her lips smiling. not like the other picture- not angry nor strong. But soft and joyous and contented. Then I went over his name in bold before pinning it back to the wall and rejoining him in bed.
