BOYS

FIND ME IF YOU CAN

An ode to the girl who lost her mind trying to find his—
She gave her entire body to him and all she got was the tip of his pinky. But she took it anyway, because that was all she'd ever get. Played hide and seek; she'd always get found. She left her heart on the sleeve of her shirt, let him tug on it when he needed. His heart, however, was sewn onto the pocket inside his jacket— even when she took off his clothing in a dimly lit room, she still couldn't find it. Scratched at sensitive skin maybe hoping to leave a mark, but nothing can wound a diamond.
I assume that's why he hid it there; to find it, she had to take a knife and carve a key out of the bones in his ribcage. And even then, to find his ribcage, she had to claw her way through his metal skin— cut her fingertips in the process, gave herself burns and cuts. She had to swim through blood and gory organs and drown herself into his sanguine fluids until all she could see was red.
An ocean of him with whirlpools grabbing her feet, but she chose to stay put; maybe one day they would subside. Let herself drown in pity for even when the sun rose, the maroon clouds covered the glowing halo of iridescence.
And as she suffocated on blood and tears, on ribcages and linen shirts, on dark eyes and chapped lips— he sat on a green hill, sipping away on cherry coke, watching her slip further and further away.
To me, he is a devil in short sleeved shirts. To her, he was a fallen angel— a devil with broken wings. She thought if she tried to fix him up with a bandaid on a skinned knee, he would take a needle and thread and sew her leaking heart back together.
He took his needle, stabbed it in, left it there. Needle turned to rust— infected the heart until red and pink turned to orange and brown. Suddenly, she realized there was no oxygen left for her to breathe as he had already inhaled it all.

Je t'aimerai dans la mort, la vie, et tout entre les deux.