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Constellations and Paint

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Alexander was cracking. Like an eggshell. No, more like cement. He was stronger than an egg shell. And besides, his skin was more of a sickly gray than a clear white. White skin. Paper skin. Paper in need of paint. He had been a blank page for so long, wishing for roses in the form of love bites and fire in the form of flushed cheeks. But he got bruises instead. That was fine, he could work with bruises. The abused flesh was a water colored dawn, the broken capillaries stars.

Wait, weren't stars golden? No, red stars are fine, it's best not to complain. His dawns were merely unique. As they healed they became sunrises, yellow peeking through the curtain of dark purples and blacks. They were beautiful. A different kind of love. Not a love that grew gardens from teeth and tongue, but a love that created ever changing skies with only the strength of a strike and the natural paint of flesh. Fire came from anger, not passion. Though, he supposed anger was a passion of its own. His fire still came from flushed cheeks. See? This was normal, this was good. A slight difference in paints but the spark was still alight. The spark that caused a wildfire, a flurry of screams and flames, one that caused black to form on skin, char on trees, bruises on flesh, are they not the same? No. Bruises heal. So perhaps not a wildfire. A wildfire suggests something bad. This is good.

His lover painted him night skies, and in return he painted him green. Green was always a favorite of his, it reminded him of rolling hills and towering trees, but now it was an ugly color. His lover told him so. And now he could see why. The saturated green was not a soothing or natural, but rather out of place and acidic. Green was envy. Green was greed. He shouldn't have talked to that other man, he shouldn't have painted his love green. He doesn't deserve the night sky, so he gets paid in rubies. Strings of them, connecting the skies, creating constellations. Thomas spoils him.

 

This is love.