Work Text:
Your hands on my shoulders,
Your head against mine.
The way your skin stretches against his is nothing short of appalling, as if you're a printed copy of his skeleton, of his mannerisms, down to the prints on his fingers and the curls in his hair—But you're not him.
You walk into our apartment, you wear his slippers—the neon green ones that he loves—you talk and walk and splay your fingers against mine, it feels nothing short of gross.
You do all of this and more, and yet you still fail to fool me. As you sit with me, your hand in mine, I think to myself and I can't help but wonder what makes you you, what was combined to make the perfect pile of what you are. An amalgamation of flesh and imitation. I wonder if under your skin lies a hollow skeleton or nothing but dead.
Is your blood the same as you: a poor imitation? Streaming strings of red confetti, unfurling down your misshapen veins. Is all of your effort put into the parts that are visible?
Your hand squeezes mine and I can only wonder what lies under the semi-translucent skin, the pale white blob of bone is barely visible unless you squint; all wrong.
Is it because he wears long sleeves? Is it because you thought I wouldn't notice? I want to scoff at the lack of effort, I want to scoff and I want to cry because you're not him.
The TV watches me more than I watch it, engaged in a one-sided conversation about kitchen appliances; an ad we've seen thousands of times, and yet you laugh.
You laugh so loudly, going on for just a second too long before your face snaps back to "normal." My face feels hot, burning hot, and I don't know if it's from anger or fear or unshed tears.
I want to run. I want to get up and lock myself in my room and call him to ask when he's coming home, but I can't do that because I'm so scared.
There's no better way to say it, I don't get scared and yet here you are, with your hand in mine, with your loud laughs and blobs of bone, and I'm so, so scared.