Stained

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When I cannot find the words I admire his face instead. I trace every line, every strand of hair, the depth of those shimmering eyes and I try to mentally will him to cry. Sometimes I think he isn’t human, he seems so jaded by life, it makes me wonder if his mind thinks of the things he has been programmed to think, subconsciously he thinks them, repeats them, never believing them and always trying to convince himself that he doesn’t really think them. Every inch of him is so beautiful and all I really want is to watch him bleed, whether it be his heart onto paper or his pain into tears that roll down his cheeks, I want to witness his weakness. I want to see that he bleeds red just like me. I wouldn’t take advantage of his vulnerability, as much as I would want to. I just want to see him fall apart, just one time. I want to see that he is real and not something that I have dreamt up. I want to wipe away his tears and feel their weight between my fingertips. I want to see if they sparkle as brightly as the rest of what I love about him does. I want to see if his blood will stain me as deeply as the rest of him has.

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