Skinny love
You feel special that I understood you. What you don't know is that letting me in doesn't have a two meter wide victorian screen door where I can just go in drink some of your cranberry juice and go out whenever I wanna pee in the backyard. You didn't know that I have to start at your fingernails using Dad's old pliers which I found at the old garage. You felt the sting of ten fingernails slowly leaving your thumb down to your precious pinky you keep using to remind your old man about that carousel ride he keep promising you every Sundays when you were a kid on a white hello kitty underwear. Back then all there was is a stood up stiff pinky, and now, all there is, is a bloody good for nothing flaccid nailless 'littlefinger'.
For someone with a resting bitch face as yours, I thought you were a screamer. Instantly I was humbled by your resilience as you let me continue putting cuts at the tip. Slowly, I peeled off all the flesh revealing all your veins and wristbones. When I reached your carpal tunnels you knew then what comes next, and you just nodded. Do you know how removing a sock from your feet after swimming the pools of highway Espanya feels like? Well, from the joint that connects the forearms and the wrist, I lavished at the undressing of your pelt up to the ligaments of your shoulders. The blood thirst pushed me into putting that thirty two peso blunt kitchen knife at your side ribs then sliding it down to your obliques with just about an inch deep so I won't damage what's beneath. The rest was a futile vulgarity of language that will fail to encapsulate the constant battle of the bliss and the horror, of flaying you alive.
You feel thankful for my understanding of you, but I feel sorry for slaughtering you in the process of knowing thee. Of seeing what's inside. When I murdered you, I saw that underneath that skin, there is a human, free from the thousand years of changing civilizations of right and wrong.
When I look at you, I don't see a crazy hormonal woman you claim to be. I don't see a wild goose chase to a girl with an incurable princess complex. I don't see the stretchmarks. The unshaven legs. The double-chins. The potbelly. I only see the flesh, the bones, the veins, the organs, and the pumping blood of a human that I love invariably.