Fiction Friday: Pride

All I want is to know the girl who shivered when I kissed her scars, yet was still so eager to impress me.

And she did. She so easily impressed someone who is not easily impressed. Someone who was secure enough to drink at a bar, alone, was brought to ashes and rubble with a drag of a cigarette, an exhale into a smirk, and a single word.

I see the shivers, AND the speed of flying down quiet streets, telling of past exploits.

You are both. You are neither. You are the soft goodnight you whispered on my lips, or the orange light painting your hipbones, or your warm breath against my neck. You are the metal in your mouth that tastes of nothing in mine, the fragrant hair that takes too long to arrange, the hands with much to teach.

You are the pain of recent, great changes. Past pains. Future pains. You are the people who stand by your side. You are the ones who leave. You are your strengths, and your doubts.

I see you. I see your demons. I am still impressed.

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