Writer's Weekend: Scars

There was a scar just above his right eye. Faded with age and partly concealed by coarse black brows, it was like a secret left to be uncovered. But once you saw it you couldn't un-see it. It was the tiny hint of imperfection that all of humanity shared. A trace of the vulnerabilities all of us experience - anxiety, fear, self-consciousness, grief, heartache: the feelings that make us real and alive. It was a mark of a past life, exposed, and whenever I kissed it he sighed softly as if he was opening his soul to me in one deep exalting breath.

Hands tangled in hair; skin growing hot; lips inhaling each other. To kiss, kiss, kiss came as naturally as breathing. And when I lay by his side under the faux fur blanket on his living room floor - enveloped by candlelight, nightfall and the warmth of his embrace - I touched the scar above his right eye with my thumb, and the birth mark on his hip, and the raised bump of a mole on his back.

Perfect imperfection.

My love.

One day he said it. It came as a whisper on the wind, so soft at first that I thought I'd misheard.

'You what?'

'Didn't you hear me?'

'I wasn't listening.'

'I love you.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

'Well, I love you too.'

'Cool.'

A pause. Then: 'You want to go and grab some dessert someplace?'

'Of course-'

We went out and got ice cream with flakes and sprinkles and chocolate sauce. We sat and ate, and all the while I couldn't stop staring at that pink little line at the base of his right eyebrow, and the shape and fullness of his lips, and the laughter in his eyes. Perfectly imperfect. Loved forever. Scars and all.

My love.

 

Writer's Weekend: This Mouth of Mine

Fingers. Old chipped nails at the tips, painted red like the dried blood of scabs. A button nose shaped with the timelessness of relentless detail. Eyes as searing blue as the hottest of flames, framed by perfectly picked little eyelashes. The touch of her soft brown hairs - each one carefully sewn into the solid scalp - felt as real as if they were still on the head of the little Indian girl they came from.

She perches on my lap, this mouth of mine, smiling out into the crowds as they sit and wait expectantly.

"You look nice today"
"She's just being polite"

The raucous laughter of a thousand voices ricochets off the walls and reverberates through my soul. Are they laughing at me or with me? Around me or about me? All it would take to find out is to ask.
This mouth of mine would love that.

"For the last time, that dress does not make you look fat"
"She has definitely gained weight but she still looks good. If it bugs her so much she should do something about it."

The cracked lips shrivelled over time with the utterance of so many foul words. Words that bring misery and hatred. The red lipstick adds to the role of the clown - the puppeteer's paradise. Not a speck gets stuck on the dull white teeth. Her exterior is too pristine for her own good.

"Oh my God, you love that band too? I thought I was the only one"
"She fancies you a stupid amount. She'll do anything to get you to notice her. Even lie."

Behind beauty there is ugliness. Ugliness is beautiful.
This mouth of mine has said too much. Now the crowd sit in shocked silence. Their heads swivel this way and that, bouncing like bobble-heads under the flick of a giant thumb. They are waiting for the secret to be revealed.

"I can't come out tonight, I'm not feeling too good. Sorry"
"She means that she has her period and her stomach is cramping like a bitch and what she is actually going to do is watch Netflix and drink hot chocolate all evening because you're not good enough for her to make that kind of effort"

The secret lies in the folds of floral cotton fabric at her spine. A hand slips out from between two roses. My hand. She is hollow on the inside. My hand, my chest, my throat, my mouth, my lips, my teeth, my tongue. My words.

This mouth of mine has no secrets; she tells only truth.
And, sometimes, the truth hurts.