BILLET-DOUX ✦ CLASSIC ROCK

38 - jim morrison

Requested by canispeaktomarge ! I was struck with this idea and I suddenly needed to write this. Dedicated to anyone who struggles with body dismorphia like I do.
❪❤︎❫
At times, you found it hard to stare into the mirror at your own reflection. It was almost a cruel joke, that you weren't able to look as perfect as you wanted. The lines of your body had become blurred in your mind's eye, and you no longer knew what exactly you resembled – but it wasn't good.

You hid yourself away in baggy outfits and underneath heaping piles of blankets that disguised your figure in Jim's arms at night. Everything you could do to keep him from seeing the sloping planes of your body, the accursed rolls and hills and mounds that took up too much space. You'd no longer wear outfits that revealed too much, your bright summery clothes pushed towards the back of the closet and replaced by much darker numbers, ones that would drape over you and disguise any curves.

Much to your relief, Jim didn't acknowledge the sudden change at first. He was too busy scribbling down poetry in his notebook, muttering quietly to himself. This was typical of Jim during songwriting sessions with The Doors and especially on days that sparked his inspiration. Today was one of such days, with the sun shining through the parted clouds and a warm breeze drifting sluggishly through the open windows of your home.

You sat on the couch, trying to pay attention to your book while sweating through your heavy clothes. All long-sleeves and dark colors, you were red-faced in the heat and dying to peel yourself out of your cocoon. But Jim was mere feet away, lying on the ground, pencil in hand. His dark hair tumbled over his brow as he wrote, eyes focused on something unattainable to you. Sometimes, you wondered what Jim saw in you. What drove him to choose you out of all the people in the world.

Jim's mind worked in strange ways, leading him in interesting directions and giving him the aura of a philosoph with a complicated grasp on life. Somehow, you were one of the puzzle pieces that fit for him. You were the one that Jim wanted to be with, the one he trusted enough to let into his life, into his mind – even if you didn't quiet understand its inner workings quite yet.

For minutes, you gazed over at Jim, wondering what he was thinking, if it had anything at all to do with you. Part of you knew that there was no way Jim thought of you as much as you thought of him. Sometimes, you wanted to ask him what his exact feelings were for you. Did he love you because of your body? In spite of it? You weren't sure which would be worse to hear.

As you spiraled through several unpleasant thoughts, Jim had finally caught you staring and locked eyes with you. Your breath immediately left your body in one big exhale, as it often did when Jim gave you all of his attention. For just a brief moment, you felt as though you were the center of his universe.

"What're you looking at?" He asked, not unkindly. You had learned early on not to let Jim's blunt speech strike you where it hurt. Most of the time, he knew no other way to talk.

"You," you replied. "You're very intense in your element, y'know. Powerful."

And he was. The subtle crease of Jim's brow, the downturn of his lips, and the almost frantic way his hand slid across the page, as if he were possessed. From his place on the shag rug, Jim looked a bit less than that, staring up at you with something inexplicable flashing across his eyes. You wondered if it was a scrap of insecurity making itself known before being tamped down.

"Doesn't feel like it," Jim said. His voice was hoarse from how long he'd gone without speaking. He scratched absentmindedly at the stubble adorning his cheeks that had gone hollow from so many nights with drugs instead of dinners. "Feels like a release."