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drained </strong>His arms are wrapped around you and his breathing is slow and deliberate,
as if he is considering every breath before he takes it.
There are no stars out tonight.
"What do you see when you look at yourself?"
He tucks the blankets under your chin. There is a fever in the air.
You're painfully aware that he can see what you're thinking,
as if your eyes don't reflect the way they're supposed to.
"I don't know," you answer.
The lights from the street filter in through the window and refract.
The mirror reflects.
He uncovers you.
He traces bones and kisses the creases in your skin.
Pressing his weight on your body, he says, "You're beautiful."
You touch the hairs that curl unrestricted behind his ears.
"I know that no matter how many times I tell you, you're never going to believe it."
You can't tell if the look in his eyes is fear or sadness. Maybe it's both.
You want to tell him that it's not his fault.
You want to tell him that you can't compete, anymore.
"Maybe tonight will be different," he says hopefully.
But hope is overrated.
Tonight, you will sleep and the nightmares will return.
The air will burn around you and there will be an echo of a voice you used to know
telling you over and over again that you are not beautiful
and you will never be loved.
There will be a shadow of a boy you used to know,
and you will feel the kisses he planted along your neck
and you will feel the pain, and you will hear your own cries.
And darkness will take on a new meaning, when you wake up alone in it.
And it will leave you staring at the picture of the one you love,
trying to make out his silhouette in the light that leaks in from the window.
There is a fever in the air and you have caught it. </p>
Please don't hate me for this but. . . just wake me when it's over when the curtains raise it's time to move on exit now, credits rolling the boy who stole my heart, the one that got a w a y.
