There's no reason why but you think you ought to try anyway

You think no one notices when you look at him beneath your half lidded eyes, or when you look as you straighten your uniform, unconsciously pulling at your sleeves like you do when you're nervous or frightened. You aren't frightened often, only when you're breaking, ribs cracking beneath an oppressive foot, or eyes brushing over marred skin donned in crosses and holy water. You break when you see him. Not too much though, no, just a little wear around the straight edges of your heart.  But still, you break.1

You step forward hesitantly when you think it's been long enough, when you think no one suspects.  Your very hesitance is suspicious, though, because you never hesitate. It's always been one foot in front of another for you--simple.2

You think he's complex when no one knows what's going on in your room and you're sitting on your bed, back bent, eyes down. Or when he's lying, back towards you, in your tiny cell of four cement walls and a sword hoister. You wouldn't be counting the notches of his spine if it were simple. Instead, you'd be tracing that scar over his left eye with a trembling finger, gently running over one fluttering eyelid and ending with one sweeping flourish on his cheek. If it were simple, he'd let you kiss him, all sloppy and wet, as you thrust heartily into his constricting warmth.  He isn't simple when he's with you.  Not much though, no, and maybe he's never been simple.  But still, you break.3

You groan and lift your face to the sploched heavens when you think no one will know, when you think you're safe.  Your cries are too loud, though, and people hear you through the walls even if they don't say so afterwards.  But that never bothered you, because all you could ever think of was carnage and kisses that never existed.4

You think his lips would be soft as you grasp yourself beneath the solitude of the stars, or when you touch yourself in his absence.  The night is cold as you lie propped on a rough rock far from home, spine aching from carrying the weight of your holy endeavor. You think of the warmth of his body, and you will yourself to forget how his flesh cools when you draw out and try to kiss the gaping mouth. You think of his smile. It makes you tingle as you come with a forlorn cry in the silence of the desert.  It satisfies you for a little bit.  Not too much though, no, just enough for you to last until your eyes meet his again.  But still, you break.5

You control yourself when you stalk through the moaning gates, when you think everyone is too busy to care.  But your face is contorted with something akin to pain though you tell the doctors that you're perfectly fine.  You've always been well, strong, uncaring--at least you were until now.6

You think he's beautiful as you undo the clasps of his shirt, or when he's sprawled and looking at you lazily through his pale lashes.  You've tried to kiss before, but he always turns away, rejecting, unaccepting. This time, though, you think of nothing as you pull his hair roughly and kiss him anyway.  Your lewd hipbones are pressing roughly against his smooth stomach, as your tongues mesh desperately and your teeth clash dully. He cries the entire time.  Not loudly though, no.  You think it's the prettiest you've ever seen him anyway.  But still, you break.7

He doesn't look at you the next day, and you don't feel guilty, just tired and flushed. You only begin to feel again when you're sitting alone staring at him laughing with his friends, and you realize that you've never made him do that before.8

You creep up to his bed and study him under the moonlight one evening. You think you cry when you realize that you love him, lying there peaceful and serene like that. You cry as you watch the soft glow of night dance upon his marked skin.  Not loudly though, no.  But still, you cry.  And still, you break.9

But you can't think of why.10