mini short story #2

there's a painful difference in hot and cold.

 when i thought of the heat, i thought of bleached hair. i thought of bloody knees, and i thought about ketchup stains on white t-shirts. i thought of skipping gym class, and math class, and i thought about broken shards of glass poking into your fingers everytime you type onto a broken phone.

i think about green eyes, the tan skin of a boy with sun spots sprinkled over his arms and forehead, and the small hairs growing back on his jawline. i think about his scent of sweat, of the food he spilt still staining his shirt, the mud he falls into while trying to run home with his untied shoe laces.

i think of the way he laughs, his mouth wide open and his eyes wide and alert, barely a care in the world over a joke that he probably didn't get in the first place. i think of the way he yells, how his shoulders tense and how his feet are already aimed towards the door, just waiting for a reason to escape.

i think about those dirt piles, in the construction sites. nobody seems to really check over there for teenage boys on their first period, hiding from the world that doesn't seem to understand them. and theirself, why they can't seem to understand why they're so angry all the time.

i think about the way he shys from girls, he stares at them, he stares at them plenty. he imagines them plenty. but when it comes to that one girl, that one girl with the long brown hair and clothes too clean for his soiled hands, he screams in a rage that he doesn't quite understand. 

a boy raised without gentleness, who from the inside, only wants to touch something cleanly, without the tainted marks of himself, who can only seem to feel anger.

when i thought of the cold, i thought of curly hair. i thought of silver rings on fingers, and i thought of oversized hoodies with only the remnant smells of someone who never got quite so dirty, it only smelt of them. and i think about the earbuds that never leave the ears of the listener.

i think about brown eyes, the fragile skin of a boy who had never broken a bone in his life, and the small smile lines around his lips. i think about the way he picks his nails while staring at everyone in the room, always with fascination of what went on around him.

i think about how he never invites anyone home, it's almost as if he had to prove he had a home in the first place, he's everywhere but there. i think about the way i see him in the corner of my eyes, i see him in those classrooms, in those hallways, on those streets as i'm driving, and in those houses of all of those parties.

i think about the way i've never seen him with a single person more than twice. then i think about the way the lines in his thumbs fit perfectly into mine when he brushes them against each other, i think about the way his lips slightly tremble before he speaks.

i think about the way he can't stay out of my head when i'm trying to sleep. i think about the fact when i turn to my side, the eyes staring back at me are brown and warm, silent yet screaming intensely, words and feelings i can't understand, yet i hear perfectly.

i think about the fact i'm in love with two different boys, who could not be more different in every possible way, but at the end of the day, i always sleep with a hoodie on.