Yin and Yang

Our hands tangle loosely on your lap. Mine are dark in contrast to your pale flesh, the yin and yang of us. I look at our hands; I can’t bear to look at anything else. Your thumb runs gently over mine, soothing me in the most minute movement possible, as my head is cradled in your shoulder. Every so often you squeeze my hand, and whenever tears fall from my eyes I can feel your fingers curling tighter around mine. I can only look at our twisted hands as the twisted tale falls from my twisted, twisted lips.

Nobody around us can see my tears as they cascade down the shadows beneath my block of fringe. Nobody can hear me tell you how I ended up the way I am. Nobody would even care to look twice at the couple of freaks shivering quietly in the corner.

The words escape from me in short, wrenched and wretched whispers, dragged painfully across the gap between us. Your fingers leave mine as they wrap around my wrists and I subconsciously look up into your blue eyes. There is nothing else. Only us. Only this.

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