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Description
She lightly taps her fingers down your spine and tells you she can count the vertebrae. One, Two, Three... the numbers are exact and her knowledge of every line is exact, and yet the only thing you'll ever know is that the numbers aren't exactly what you wanted. Want. Your standard of perfection changes every day, and she cries about that, cries because she knows where this will end. You trace your ribcage and admire the sharpness of the edges, telling her that someday, the bone will cut you free from yourself. Your body. Your insecurities, your fears.

You're so sure.

She massages nonexistent muscle and notices exactly how deadly you are to yourself, how breakable you look and feel and act. She notices the slimness of your shoulders and the hinging elbows and how it's possible to see the bones in your wrists twist as you move. And you admire it, while she flinches at your every sign of perceived perfection. You explain that weightlessness isn't only achieved in space; and you'll someday set a record for willpower-driven flight, but the only thing she sees is the icy tint of your lips and shaky-cold hands and the way that you seem unsure about such a confident sentence.

You're so unsure.