I am just skin and bones. His skin is covered in tattoos; it is his way of hiding from the world he doesn’t care for. He learned at a young age that his bones, which hold him together, could break so easily. His heart, which pumps the blood through his body, keeping him alive, has never felt more faint. It is as though it is made of stone. Whenever he looks at me, it feels as though he is looking through me.

“I am right here!” I want to scream. He is convinced he is not worthy of love an affection while I sit here, convinced he is the reason such things exist. I was never meant to be a hopeless romantic and I always favored sex over a relationship, but once I met him I knew that I could have both. When we just met, we were attached at the hip. He wanted- no, he needed- to know all there was to me. It was the first time he felt passionate about anything on this earth.

Within time, something inside him changed. It is as though he learned everything about me and began to feel shitty about himself. How could a man so dirty, so crude, ever deserve to be happy. He never realized that once he shut himself off and distanced himself from the woman who needed him the most, all she became was skin and bones.