He smelled like lemongrass the first I met him, out by the abandoned gas station we drove to in my red Citroen when I got my license. I expected him to be rough, he certainly looked it, unkempt black hair, the peek of a tattoo beneath his sleeve. But he was sweet, and soft. Never mean to a single soul. Around the bonfire as we laughed, he started dancing to the sound of the waves, he never needed any music. His skirt flowing around him, head tilted up, he looked like a angel sent down specifically to destroy me. I think I might have fallen in love then and there.
I soon discovered there wasn't a single sharp edge on his body either, and me, covered in thorns, how could I have know they wouldn't even scratch the surface of the fabric he covered himself in.
I tried to pierce it, violently, too violently. I would hit, and scratch, and stab at it recklessly. But not a single blemish, not a single bruise could ever form, never could I tear an ounce of pain from him.
I tried to run then, to drag myself out of my own hatred, oh how I hated him for not hating anything. I ran and ran and ran, dug tunnels in my mind to hide from him, ducking behind the dark, tall trees of my psyche.
And still, after all the venom, after all the dirt and blood, after I buried myself ten foot in the ground so I couldnt taste him anymore, I could still smell that overwhelming scent of lemongrass.