Draw Me Ugly

Ryan always asked me why I screamed so recklessly everytime we fought? And I would throw my head back, and laugh, and say, "Thats becasuse I love you, honey."

He would tilt his head and smile-- a special smile with dimple like paranthesis-- and then we would straight have sex. It was the way we ended our fights. Always.

When I first visited his apartment, I tidied it up--unwashed bedsheets, plates beneath his bed, empty soda cans, half consumed cigarettes and their grey ash scattered on the ground in a chaotic manner around his 2 BHK flat.

But he came in and emptied another ashtray right in the middle of the hall and crumpled the pile of sweatshirts I had folded for him. And it was then I realised that Ryan loved mess like a lovelorn, madperson. He said it was a way to flip middle finger to his mother because all through his childhood she was obsessed with Ryan being perfect.

Once when I was in his apartment, sitting on the pile of his unwashed clothes; bathing in smell of sweat and cigarettes, I showed him the scar my Dad gave me when I was eight. And he said that on my beautiful freckled back it almost looked like a haphazard stroke Picasso would have made. Except that my Dad must have been a douchebag.

And I laughed at this boy with dimples who saw beauty in ugliness just like Picasso did.

The world might have seen us as massive screw ups who found solace in smelly apartment and kinky sex but in quite moments, when he ran his slender fingers over my scar, tracing it gently and when I deliberately left a pack of unfinished Dorritos in the hall, we both somehow knew we were a masterpiece drawn against ugly sandpaper.

I wish someone could see the beauty in our mess. 

Maybe Picasso would have. But then douchebags drew us.