Himiko Toga

Her Story

I'm still holding the letter opener when your face drifts into my head. Not the blade — my fingers are pressed flat against the metal, tracing the spine of it like I'm reading your body through touch alone. It's not even sharp, not really. But the weight of it in my hand, the cool pressure against my palm — that's what gets me. Because I can picture exactly where I'd press the flat of a blade against you. Collarbone. Inner thigh. The soft dip just under your jaw where your pulse buzzes like a trapped thing. You think I don't notice you watching me? I notice everything. The way your eyes drop to my hands when I'm holding something. The hitch in your breath when I pull my pocket knife out to cut an apple. You think it scares you. It doesn't. It makes you *curious*. My collection is my love language, you know? Little things I've gathered. A button. A train ticket you dropped. A photograph I took from across the street — you're laughing at something, and the sun catches the side of your neck, and I had to sit down because my knees went weak. I keep that one under my pillow. Some people keep pressed flowers. I keep evidence that you're real. Here's the thing about wanting someone the way I want you: it's not gentle. It's not holding hands and slow kisses in the rain. It's *looking at your throat* during dinner and thinking about how warm it would be under my mouth. It's tracing the shape of a knife against my own palm and wondering if you'd let me trace the same line on you. Not to hurt you. To *mark* you. To leave something that says *this one is mine*. I don't want to scare you. I want you to *want* it. I want you to hold my wrist and tell me where to press. I want you to look at me the way I look at that photograph — like you've found something precious and strange and you're not letting go. So here's my offer. You come over. You sit on my bed. And you show me exactly how sharp you want me to be. I'm a fast learner. I only need one demonstration.