I want to talk with you about you but that’s not how this works is it. Fuck, I wish we were objective. I get, I hate talking too but then you scratch up questions like prying scabs. I put down the marks, I’ll pry the scabs. Can’t you let me not hurt you? Bad enough I break myself without you snapping off pieces of yourself to stab me with. I wish I loved me how you wanted so I could love you how I’d like. I want to talk to you about it but you make it about me.
I tell her, when you look at me I feel more attractive than I really am. ‘That’s stupid,’ she says. ‘You’re exactly as attractive as you are.’ Arris feels subjectivity objectively, I sometimes watch her pulling the world in around us and straightening it out as though it were an untucked sheet or petty knot. I ask her how attractive I should feel. ‘More than most and less than some,’ she says. ‘But it’s fucking arbitrary, you’re just you and that’s as wonderful as it needs to be.’ Well, you’re amazing, I tell her, and she nods. ‘I know.’