It’s all just skimpy looks, flitting smiles, gentle brushes and soft giggles. It’s flying, inside jokes that cause rapid heartbeats and dull aches. It’s staring at the blackness of night and still seeing that glowing smile and those sparkling eyes.
It’s hope, and yet it’s fear.
It’s fear of lonely heartache and rebounding affection. It’s fear of love wasted, washing down the drain of a teenage eternity. It’s fear of feelings that bloom and burst and threaten to consume you every day. It’s unwillingness to conquer that fear.
It’s love. But it’s skinny.
So thin that the sight of food sickens it and turns it stone cold. So skimpy that the clothes on it’s body barely grapple its bones. So little that a spin makes it seem as though it disappears for a second.
There’s no point to skinny love when the lover’s love is that of skin. Tight skin. Tiny waist. Skinny legs. No, skinny love.
He’s in skinny love with me because we fear.
I don’t know what he fears but his fear must hang on some kind of inherent insecurity that drives him insane during the day. I drive him insane during the dark night? I guess so because both ring true for me. And skinny lovers are often mirrors of one another.
Skinny love drives me insane. Love for skinny. Not me, no. My bones are hidden beneath layers of oil, skin and fat. Like a blanket of shame coating my mind. Like a wall of defense between me and true love, skinny love. Skinny love, love for skinny, causes my skinny love.
It may as well not exist, this skinny love. It’s not real. It’s all a blur between the slimy layers and pudgy body parts. I can’t see this skinny love. I can’t feel this skinny love. Only love for skinny.
And what is skinny love? Because I don’t want to be the one to say it aloud.
My love for skinny is skinny itself and my skinny love for him is sadly overruled.
Absence of love. Skinny is absence.