claire&james.

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at times it feels as though this work is for nothing, that the expense of the self is being completely and entirely thrown away, made useless and foolish.




one of my new favorites:
http://stellaimhultberg.com/







as she pressed her forehead against her locker door, registering the coolness of the thin metal, she could not help but feel so dirty in her skin. so tainted and abused. he had said it with such ease, such nonchalance and assurance that, of course, it must have been true. biting her bottom lip and closing her eyes tight, as though to will the words away, she clenched her fists and let anger wash over her, fury with him for being so effortlessly typical, fury with herself for being vulnerable enough, degrading enough, to allow him to take her through her bed. she had followed with a sweet smile. a scornful curl of hair escaped her bun and swayed near the locker door.
"she’s nothing. just a girl. you know, those girls you fool around with now and then. a toy.”
he had not seen her around the corner, within earshot and delicately standing against the wall, very open to hurt. her face crumpled like a façade of a hand-built house collapsing to the ground, such a beautiful thing constructed with good intention and love suddenly destroyed. she did not know she had slid to the floor until her knees touched a hard coldness; exhaling unevenly, her eyes refused to see, regardless of being open. there was only the perpetuated, dull repetition of his words in the crook of her ear, a soft and mocking echo. she felt so weak.
but he had closed his fists when he said it. she was unable to see him as well, unable to trace her eyes along the lines of tension in his forearm, the stiff stance of his shoulders and the rigidity rimming his eyes. she did not see the way his mouth moved, as though it was an instrument apart from his face, an evil and traitorous frame that bended around hateful words that perhaps even he could not believe he was saying. small things that she would have caught, minor tones of his skin and voice, certain movements—things that only she could have discerned, for she knew his skin and his touch, the tones of his muscles and the attitudes of his body.
she did not see them and was thus unable to know that his words lacked any meaning whatsoever, and that it was to keep appearance in order to preserve their relationship. she did not want to reveal themselves any less than he did, but how could she know that what he said was for them, for her?
it had passed. she had already misunderstood and he already felt the weight of guilt, of self-hatred. how unbelievably wounded she would be if she had heard, he thought, licking his lips and hating the taste there.
but she had heard. she had listened closely and subsequently felt a great chasm of polluted blood and regret erupt within her chest as her heart contracted, delivering physical pain. the window of the cabin was open, and various birds sung out their discourse. neither of them heard, however; she, her body stressed with emotional injury and his with repentance, were oblivious to the melodious sounds.
and so the relationship began to crack. doubts seeded themselves within her heart and the destructive quality of apologizing without being forgiven began to pain his hands. they began to break, here.
her feet were cold. he suddenly remembered the way the curve of her lower back had felt against his palm; such warmth.







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