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SCRATCHES — a ficiton
Your hand on my own leaves scratches that I kiss
There is a roughness to the underside of your hands. Hard calluses and sandpaper skin mar the surface like stars in the sky. When you touch me, you leave marks — white lines of scratches across my arms and neck.
You speak of someone else — she shows an interest and you are flattered. You joke about it when you come home, half-heartedly, hoping that I won’t care. Your eyes appeal to my compassion, my obsession, linger for a moment too long, looking for reassurance. Your head nods in false laughter at the absurdity of it — the ridiculous notion that another might stand a chance against me. As if, you giggle. As if.
These are all scratches of their own. The nick and scrape of guilt are the knives slipping across the heart of us. Every word of overactive confession comes with a score across the surface of our skin, threatening to burst our bubble. It is so much fear of losing me.
You have always been so beautiful. You never appreciated it. You only ever saw your rough hands and your weatherbeaten face. I only saw the hard work and the perseverance through pain. But when you look at me now, I see the tender flesh beneath, the desperation to be here with me now in the heart of intimacy.
You never understand that these are my scratches, my victory wounds. The pain you anticipate inflicting is the proof that I wait for. It is the moment of your return. It is evidence of your hand on me, me and only me.
Originally published on Tumblr
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