I only study history out of fear, not out of any particular desire. Most times I would much rather pretend it wasnt there, or convince myself that it doesnt mean anything anymore. The same way the young woman softly pushes at the scar on the right side of her chest in a dirty bathroom mirror; studying it like an dusty old map found in a dead relatives attic.

    Its funny how we obsess over the terrible incidents of our lives while memories of happiness and elation so quickly fade. She is trying to keep quiet so she doesnt wake me, but when the dim light from the lamp in my my room catches the tears slowly dripping from her cheek in the mirror, the light creates endless glints and I feel like I’m looking up at the night sky – with an infinite number of planets and stars that are both equally terrifying and negligible to me.

  We push things much farther through agitation than through any type of knowledge or endearment of the subject. I know far more about my enemies than I do of any friend or lover. I can describe in detail every single scar on her body, but I couldn’t tell you the color of her eyes because I only look in her eyes when she weeps.

   I pretend I was asleep when she crawls back into bed.
Ive read all the history books and scripture. They say she was created from Adams rib long ago, but I am so reckless and I break bones. And even though they typically heal stronger after small fractures, I’m still hopelessly drawn to the damage…..the history….the fear that these afflictions carry.

      She lays in the bed next to me and stares at the filthy, cracked ceiling the same way she looks at her reflection.  I let my fingers push at the scar on the right side of her chest, even though I know it still aches her. I want her like a cat wants a tiny insect on the other side of a window pane. Some sort of maddening necessity. Something far deeper than the skin. There is something underneath these flaws and deformities that I crave. Something I need to study.
and fear.
and fuck.
and destroy.
Not because I’m malicious or spiteful, but in the same way we refuse to be alone in a creeky, old house at night, yet we love nothing more than telling ghost stories. In the same way that the cat kills an insect and then get annoyed when it stops fluttering it’s wings.

I don’t know why, but she’s never more sexy than when she is crying.

I study history out of fear, and her skin is decorated with so much of it. I cant seem to help myself. I press gently at the raised tissue and softly drag the back side of my nails across the scar on the right side of her chest. Not because I’m not afraid anymore,  but because she tells me she hates it, and that is irresistible.

… like a tiny insect just outside the window pane.

History and the present are like scorn lovers that still keep a close eye on each other but will never comply to each others needs.