I hate this extra skin. It shouldn't exist on this shell. This ideal. Something so simple, so-called fragile, can mean so much, how cliche. An uproar as I look above. An orchestra. His breathing is all I can hear. He weaves, twists and moves like a silhouette across my frame - his air braiding my fingers. Such a disjointed, scattered, complicated creature. Every feature, every fiber - pestulant and perfect. Every sound, hair - incessant and beautiful. He is my decay, my rot and my vector. Yet a foolish girl, frustrated by this cancerous thing. Like a freckle that sits just above the skin, imperfect and misplaced. Just something to pick at or cover with plastic. Stabbing, clawing at my throat I want something to suffer - let me morph into what he sees. A mirror where I can't see myself. Be my unholy plague and I'll be your infection. My inconclusive, impervious, imperfect Demetrius.