love you, miss you
She was in the other room. I was washing my face. On the ledge, in front of the mirror, she had left a pack of razor blades. Her razor, for her legs, was opened up and left out to dry, the blade shining in the artificial light. That stopped me in my tracks.
I am not one that is much for blades. They require too much effort, too much pressure to leave a mark if they are not perfectly sharpened. They dull easily. And the pain doesn't last like it should. But.
But.
There is one blade, one singular, crystalline, gleaming blade that has been the subject of my daydreams more times than any lover. It is idolised, it has a golden halo, and light spreads from it like silver blood.
I thought of the way it cut me - accidentally, slicing through my finger so cleanly I didn't realise until it was too late - and wondered if this blade could do the same.
For a singular, insane moment, I thought of picking up the blade (carefully, as to not move the rest of the razor), and borrowing it. I would put it back later. She wouldn't know. Surely, it would be fine. Surely, it would be fine.
I didn't do it. I would love to say that I reached out, let my fingers hover over it - and in a grand moment of self determination, pulled back and left the room. No. I didn't move an inch towards it, or away from it. The whole event looked like just a glance, from the outside, I'm sure of it. I finished washing my face and took a shower. The blade did not move. I did not move towards it.
She has since tidied it up. I am both thankful for it, and hate it. I feel stupid for letting the chance slip out of my hands. I feel stupid for wanting it. I miss it.