TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS
I mean I’ve seen the way she does it before. She usually just pulls a ballpoint pen from her pocket. Then she takes the pen firmly between her fingers and scrawls out whatever she’s thinking. On her arms, no less. Right on the skin. Always on her arms.
Maybe it’s because if she doesn’t write things down she loses herself. She loses a memory, I guess.
I used to think if I did something like that—writing things on my arms, you know—it would be kind of weird. People would look at me and I wouldn’t always want people to know what I’m thinking, like somehow subconsciously they’ve discovered something about me that I don’t know.
But then I figure out that’s her point. She doesn’t care what people think about her or if they know what she’s thinking. She doesn’t care at all; she’s proud of her thoughts and her memories and overall, just herself. I think she’s beautiful for that.
One day after it has happened, she sits next to me. I’m leaning against a wall of our school; she comes up silently and leans her head back too.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
She starts crying. I look over and see the tears mat her eyelashes together and cascade down her face. I see her face crumple up as she buries her face in her arms—her arms, not her hands—and sniffles quietly.
It’s then that I notice she’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt. The first time I’ve ever seen her hide her arms.
I move over to her and slip down one of the sleeves. She doesn’t move away; she lets me push the sleeve all the way up her arm so I can see her skin.
And it’s then that I read the entire story.
updates:
pg. 1 - introduction
