tiny, ugly things

what we hate about ourselves makes us beautiful

Imperfections make us human.

“What are you doing in my room?” he asks.

Tall and broad-shouldered. Black hair just long enough to curl at his neck and fall across his eyes. Face hand-sculpted by a beneficent god. High cheekbones. Full lips. Hooded eyes so dark they look like reflections of a barren universe. 

He gets within touching distance and leans in. Splays his hand against the door frame above my head. Bare muscled arm less than an inch from my cheek. If I turn even the slightest bit, my lips will touch his skin.  

The ragged scar on his inner bicep draws my attention. 

I find so much loveliness in imperfections. Those tiny, ugly things that most of us hate about ourselves are the very things that make us unique, that tell our stories. True reflections of what make us human. Make us vulnerable. 

Make us beautiful. 

I’m swallowed up by the anguish in those dark, dark eyes. I understand suffering. Pain occupies the deepest parts of my soul, and probably always will. He knows pain, too. The kind that pulses under the blood-soaked bandage. The kind that never heals. 

I inhale the clean scent of his freshly showered body. I ache to see him fully unadorned so I can admire all of him. Find his scars. His flaws. His darkness.

I want to know his story.

I want to tell him mine. 

He’s never seen my bare flesh, but I know he won’t flinch away from my scars. I know he will adore every damaged inch of me. 

He leans in, his breath skimming my lips.

He doesn’t have a cold enough heart to hide from me anymore.

Now he will shatter and show me his devastation.

And I will rid him of grief’s poison.

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