Member-only story
He Kisses my Scars
Finding comfort in my own skin
“I don’t want to die without any scars.”
―Chuck Palahniuk [Fight Club]
He kisses me all over — from my toes to my forehead — sending shivers up and down my spine, as if his lips glide over me like a light feather running down and tickling my body, my mind, my soul, my aura.
He stops breathing when he sees my scars, wondering from where they came, and if I gave them to myself.
The world around me stops spinning, as if time itself is set to pause. And then my breath stops, alongside his stiffening body, but he doesn’t stop kissing me. Instead, he kisses me slower, more passionately, more intimately. He kisses me more, using his whole body’s energy within the briefest of moments that have been suspended in the air, as if I’ll collapse deeper into his timing of all that surrounds us.
He starts to breathe again, after glancing up at me (I dare not look him in the eyes, for fear of what I’ll see in his), but hardly misses a beat as he keeps kissing my body — up and down, side to side, front and back. All over, really.
I used to feel shame for what my past reveals (revealed?) — more like what my body reveals — until I found comfort in my past, my present, and my future yet to be known (known to me, that is). But now? Now, I feel happiness…
