ENTRY 1:
[ BLUE VEINS ]
DEAR YOU,
I still remember the day I met you.
You were looking at your hands, like they had become the most interesting thing in the entire room. I watched, fascinated with you, as you toyed with your fingertips. I watched; watched you as you let them dance across the back of your hands, watched as you let one finger following closely after the other, watched as you let them run across the back of your palm, as if they had somewhere to be before. The silver rings on your fingers glistened; shinning a sharp ray in my eyes.
That's when I noticed you.
In a house party—the kind that didn't sleep until the morning had risen, and the booze had emptied—that I didn't want to be in; where the girls wore skirts too low, and boys hands traveled too far.
But, I suppose, that's what a house party is, right?
I noticed how tall you were and how uncomfortable you looked between the other people; like you wanted to be anywhere but here, and I wanted you anywhere but there. I wanted you near me; because I wanted to see the color of your eyes and how your lips parted when you spoke. I wanted to watch your lips curl around each letter, and pucker with each word.
I wanted to see if your eyes were blue enough to drown in.
I thought you were beautiful. In the way that your veins were visible through your pale, transparent flesh. In the way that your shoulders shook when you laughed. I found myself staring at your lips and the way that they moved, transfixed.
I thought you were the prettiest girl in the room.
So, I approached you.
Prowling, almost.
In that moment I had become the person you wanted me to be. I had become the person you craved. The very moment you looked at me, I knew, I knew you wanted me, like I wanted you.
I wanted you in my bed; wanted you underneath me; hands on my hips, my marks on your skin. I wanted you. I planned on spinning a web, to catch you between my hands.
You looked at me: wide-eyed and parted lips, as if I had stolen the breath from your lungs.
I asked you to come outside to join me for a cigarette, you said you didn't smoke (I should have known, because of course you didn't smoke, you weren't the type—too clean, too soft around the edges), I said join me anyway.
You did.
Sometimes, I like to close my eyes and pretend I'm there again. I like to pretend that I'm still standing against that brick wall, with the sultry air bitter against my tongue, and the cigarette still burning between my jittery fingers. I pretend that you are beside me, prettily toying with your fingers and calling me lovely like you used to.
It makes everything so much easier.
You're very pretty, I said, with my lips wrapped around the end of my cigarette. The kind of pretty you want to stare at.
You blushed; your skin white then pink, and then red.
So are you—I mean, you are, well, also very... beautiful, you said, lips tugging into a sheepish smile. You were also so tiny, so shy. Always so little. You, well—um... shouldn't be smoking that. It'll rotten your teeth and give you cancer, y'know.
I sucked in, inhaling the smoke, raising a brow.
That's true, I agree, removing the butt of the cigarette from my mouth. I smiled, teasing and gentle. It does make me look cool, though, doesn't it?
The coolest, you agreed.
It was silent, only for a moment or two.
Wanna taste? I asked, running my thumb across my bottom lip.
I approached, slowly. You were trapped between me and the brick wall, staring up at me. You inhaled sharply, then nodded. I planted a kiss on your cherry-like lips, soft and sweet. Gentle and understanding lips. My hand slipped to your waist, holding your body against mine.
When I pulled away, you looked so pretty: swollen lips, flushed face, wide-eyed, and chest heaving. It was then I asked for your name, and you said; call me baby.
I'll always remember you this way; at that exact moment, you were everything. Swollen red lips, pulled into a small smile. Your thin fingers touching your lips, with feather-like touches. You looked so perfect. I slid my hand down your waist, then to your hand.
Come inside with me, baby, I said.
You grinned—God, I would die to see you grin again—and nodded your head; up, down, up, down, and repeat.
The night escalated so quickly, the night moving so fast; I don't even remember touching the inside of your thighs, or the feeling of your chapped lips against my throat, or how much we drank. We drank so much that night didn't we?
Or maybe we were drunk on the feeling of each other?
I think I use to know, but I'm not so sure anymore.
I only remember you in my room. I remember my lips on your collar, sinking my teeth into the sensitive skin. You whimpered. I remember your nails digging into my shoulders, ripping at my skin. I hadn't asked or wondered why you asked to keep your shirt on, or why you demanded that I keep the lights off.
I was too trapped in the feeling of you.
The rest of the night was a blur of body parts; legs on legs, hands on hands, mouth on mouth.
That night, you told me I was beautiful.
I remember the feeling of your fingers dragging across my forehead, pushing the hair away from my eyes, and kissed the side of my temple.
I smiled, all lips and teeth.
I said you were more beautiful.
You were so, so lovely, darling.
Who knew where we would lead? Not me. Not then. I never thought that we'd be here, I didn't know. This was the beginning of our story—the start of you and I.
I can only hope you can forgive me; because I forgive you.
FROM ME.
