POLLUTING

去年夏天，我在你右手臂上設計了一個傷口。

它在你未晒過太陽，淺粉色衣袖半掩的皮膚裡面，用一滴滴的血拼出了我的名字。

我們肩併肩坐在你空曠的工作室裡，熱氣像一張沾水的紙巾，從屋頂滲透進來，貼滿我們全身。

桌上放了一罐你逼我一定要選的仙草蜜。

你說 會痛

我說 不痛幹嘛打

你說 不

只因為你不停的打同個地方，那塊肌膚像茄子一樣漸漸的成熟，因為你一次次的在同個地方傷害著我。我抱怨，不是為了你的力氣或能耐，是因為你不停的開啓同個傷口。

我說 你真是個小孩

你歎了口氣，用斜到快要掉出來的眼神看著我，並把你的另隻手臂獻給了我，一個沒有任何痕跡，從未開發過的左手臂，像隻白花花，擁有早晨雲朵外衣的肥羊，牢牢的固定在一根木棍上等著被犧牲，一個沒有裂痕沒有傷口的棉花糖，等著被融化，被吃掉，像一塊用無奈與倔強打成泡沫的海綿，等著被我吞噬。

那年夏天，光線很強，但那是人造的陽光照射著我們。

I designed a wound on your upper right arm last summer.

My name was spelled with the blood that had risen to the surface of your skin, untouched by the sun and half concealed under your pale-pink shirt sleeve. 

We were sitting side by side in your empty studio with the heat bleeding through the roof like a wet tissue.

You said it hurt.

I said why would i do it if it didn't?

You said No.

It's because you keep hitting the same place, the very patch of skin ripened like an eggplant because you hurt me over and over on the same spot. I complain, not for your strength your capability, but for your opening of the same wound.

I said you're such a boy.

You sighed and stared at me with eyes so slanted as if they were about to fall out their sockets, then offered your other arm to me; one void of any scratches or marks, as a lamb raised and fattened, with its coat pure like morning clouds, offered for sacrifice on a stick, to be melded and eaten like a marshmallow with no tears or sears, just a sponge blended wholly with uncompromise  for me to swallow. 

It was bright last summer, but it was a man-made sun that shone upon us.