Saturday, November 20
His skin was like pastel, each skin flake fell so easily off him. His blood was thorns and angry faces, clogging up his veins. His eyes were dark moons, that followed the sun wherever she would go, but sometimes he had to stop, be dark, quiet and transcending. Transparent and cruel. His temper was shot by green hazes of smoke, and his smile was as fake as the teeth that sat there. We weren't allowed to use his tea, his razors, his fear. The days that were most hardest were the days he couldn't eat, he'd just sit there, watching his beer gut shrink and feeling his liver cringe. She was innocent, she never knew the full story, but there laid his medical bill, filled up with sickness and when they first occurred. Her phone buzzed with happy faces and "I like yous" and all she could think of was how long she was clueless. If she could just inject her own blood into his, and that would be the cure he needed, she would.