Rare, fragile, sweet, golden; I am all of these things

Girls would always say to me “boys are stupid, Zero”.
I would always reply “I know. That’s why I don’t want a boy, I want a man”, they’d giggle and I’d just stare blankly at a wall.

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Suddenly, like a whitewash of foam from a wave crashing over the tide line, I let you really see all of me. I let you see and let you love all the parts of me I didn’t want to see and couldn’t love myself. You were as kind and as comforting as the wood stove burning all winter long in my parents home but you’d dare never to burn my soft, supple skin. It’s pale, it’s gold tinted, it’s warm and subtle. It is all the things you had always wanted to touch and all the things you had always wanted to touch you; rare, fragile, sweet.

I am embarrassed to show you the curve of my belly from all the years I had not exercised or starved myself. Snow white scars pattern my thighs and behind from growing too quickly when I were young, though I never had much to me. They look soft, look like silver moonlit ripples on the ocean when the wind dimples it’s calm surface.

My face is flushing and I can feel my aching hands tremor, nerves and worry and nerves. In one deep breath with eyes wide shut I let all the silk I swathed myself in fall to the floor. Let my fear fall away in amongst the fabric folds. Gravity taking your side and aiding my hesitation. You let out a sigh and I am terrified to open my eyes, so I don’t. I stand before you, wearing only mascara and my breathing is laboured. Stomach moving in and out quickly because I learnt to breathe through my diaphragm as a young girl.

You lay a keen hand on my waist, gentle, not wanting to scare the doe that threatens to throw herself under the covers at any moment. I flinch, it is a shock to my system how eager your touch is, how much love bleeds from those fingertips and stains my skin.

How many colours: pastel blue, berry, black.

How many colours I have not seen before you coax from behind my secret smile. How many colours you paint greedily on my soul. How many colours I am frightened you loved before me. How many colours are in your arsenal, honey?

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