As she unzipped her grey dress pants and pulled them off, she could feel the static twitching and snapping around her calves, hearing it crackle. Off with her sweater, embroidered with "PC"on the left breast. Pulton Church Catholic School. Chestnut strands of hair seemed to shift up of their own accord, following the wool shirt up off her head, into the air... she smoothed them down with a hasty hand. Off with the bra and the pristine white panties. Gingerly stepping over discarded clothing, she made her way back to her bed and slipped onto it. And there she sits. Trying not to see herself, but unable to help it, she begins to rank each body part. Feet? Too big. Legs, too flabby. Waist, too thick. Breasts... too small. She stared herself down, looking at these and dozens of other parts. She wondered what part was most repulsive.

Now she lay back onto pillow upon pillow, hearing joints crack as her spine stretched. Covers, soft green and coarse blue, half-hide the monstrosity she sees in the mirror. Stretch again. She rests her head on her left bicep, able to feel the gentle pulse of her own heart, damp hair cool against her back. The beat quickened, and a not-unpleasant tightening spreads through her abdomen, fluttering, as she thinks of him and where he might be, and the way he has a part of her no one else does. The most perfect part.

The hair on her upper arm is downy and golden, covering a small mole there like a goddess's robe. She held her breath and while her mind drifted, her eyes glazed. A hand, strong fingers, nails with chipped blue paint, reach up to finger a small charm on a necklace that is no longer there.

Is it normal for love to hurt so much?
But yes. For the pain makes it real.

A tear slips from a tightly closed eyelid that does not open. Oh, she could sleep right here, her arm a pillow, her thoughts her companions. It was late. Seven minutes past midnight. Seven... seven years since she'd last told anyone that she loved them. This time, she meant it with all her heart. No, she stayed awake. Awake.
She thought of him.
She thought of lies.
She thought of love and fear and how synonymous they were. He had taken something from her, but somehow she can look past all the wrong done to her in the past and focus on putting everything she cherished, her "all", into this relationship. She wanted to make it work because nothing else had.

And there were so many ugly parts. It was hard to believe someone like him could love this deformity, this messed up puzzle of altered pieces. Arms were flabby, hands were big but okay, fingers were chubby.

She knew that she was deep, intelligent, compassionate. But he made her feel like so much more -- a goddess, royalty. Even a goddess would not deserve his exquisite touch, his brilliant intellect, his charming curiosity.

He had said he wanted it so he could always see into her very soul, to see the real her. And all she wanted, ever, was to stop hiding. Bare herself. Let someone else see, know, and even love her and everything nonsensical inside of her.
So she agreed.
Her skin was cooler now. The night air from the window slipped over her softness, making each silky hair stand erect and cooling the clean sweat behind her knees. The screen to the window was gone so she could see the stars. She opened her eye to look at them. Grey flecked with honey, deep, universal, nebulous. The other eye opened to reveal only a slick red chamber, hollow and sunken, the socket still moist inside but without pain.

She was glad he had something to remember her by.