Flower Crowns

viii. touch me not

" your touch was paint, so let my skin be your canvas "

E I G H T
t o u c h  m e  n o t

WILDFIRE IN THE eyes that are of emerald forests.

Heath had his gaze transfixed on me, his thin brows of dark blonde shade pointed upwards, an expectant look on his face. The way how he had stared at me, intense and smoldering like a cloud of smoke amidst the fire, had made my skin light aflame.

I found myself playing with my fingers, a nervous habit of mine that I knew Heath had caught on. "Well," I mumbled, "I – no. I don't know! I'm not sure. I mean, I know when Sorrel does, but... no, he's just doing it for fun. Never mind, ignore me."

"I guess that's a no," he concluded with a smile and broke free the chains of his scrutinization, now staring at the white roses in the cheap, ugly vase.

"Wait," I paused, a finger lifted, "wouldn't flirting not work? Stephen's... gay."

I may have uttered that final sentence in a more somber tone — as per usual when it had came to him, eyes downcast, observing how I rubbed my feet against the mat. It was fun to hear how the fabric of my socks scrape the surface of the rug, where a spark would ablaze and course through everything I touch.

"Well, yeah, apparently." From the corner of my eye, I had seen him do a shrug.

I stopped. Looking through a haze of confusion in my eyes, I uttered, "What do you mean, apparently?"

"I mean —" Our eyes met for a second — "yeah, he said that he's gay. But, I don't know. When it comes to you, he seems... jealous, protective, and not the type to hold it all in either. Don't you think? Take for example, four days ago, he was flippin' shit when his mother told him I was your bodyguard. Maybe he's confused, maybe he's actually a bisexual."

Had he really been jealous? Was there a possibility he was actually a bisexual? I was tempted to argue over that fact; maybe he had been envious because I got to hang out with Heath, or it could also be plausible that his kingly instincts were showing. But, deep beneath my bones, there was no denying I felt a surge of hope.

Hope that maybe one day the castle of my heart would get to see its new king, hope that maybe one day he could rebuild the shattered walls my mother had wreaked havoc in. Because when every time his eyes laid upon my own from the crowd that usually gathered around him, even the saddest parts of me grew roses.

But even as roses were beautiful and marvelous, the thorns will always hurt.

     A memory flashed before my eyes.