#146

we sat telling stories, and he asked follow-up questions like a good, active listener should, and i wondered if it was an act. every scar, every bruise, he asked where they came from, how i felt about them and as i spoke his face turned ashen, involuntarily pale, as if he felt every scrape, each breaking bone, every long piece of cold metal slid into my skinny limbs- a frail version of wolverine, not strong enough to lift the adamantium into a fist.
my heart was nearly the only part of me that was not either fortified or scarred, and when i told him later that i loved him, he cringed, the same look of pain from every story up to now and then i learned what a scar truly was.