I've been listening to too much Birdy - and I prefer her version of this song to Bon Iver's - and this is what fell from my fingers. It makes no sense, but it's Chuck's POV on Blair as she is, and as she should be.

Skinny Love

She is skinny love – the no cream, low fat, no guilt version. That's who she is now. Romance without sugar or syrup, romance skimmed of all its dirty parts. Love bones, love skeleton. Love heart made of love heartstrings.

Come on, skinny love, just last the year

I am something – the all bones, no hope kind of something. I am air, I can nourish no one. I was born again into a nightmare with a bandage over my searching eyes, led blindly forwards into the field of battle.

Pour a little salt, we were never here

Did I dream it? All of it? Did I really die and only dream everything that came before now, dream being alive with her? She felt alive, so maybe she was. I felt alive, but surely I was not. I am alive now, because it hurts to be alive. It hurts to choose the things humans choose, the yes to the good, the no to the bad, skimming the cream off the top as she does. She has her no guilt, no envy, no calories love; I call her skinny love.

My, my, my
My, my, my
My, my, my, my, my

If I did dream it all, then I would not dream of her. I choose anything else. I choose dark dreams and darker nightmares, and I do not choose her. I do not choose the backlight of morning for her face, the void of night for her eyes. Her eyes are limitless, to the back of beyond, turning me around inside my own head. She asks me questions with her eyes: what happened here? And why? And all the pooled pieces of evidence are against me.

Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

The needs of the many outweigh those of the few. There are two who need her skinny love, so they two are the many. I am the few. Broken glass, a mirror, a broken mirror. I split her face, I split my face, my hand, my face in the mirror. All the shards make my face the many, but I am not the many. I am not the two they were all waiting on, me and she and all our guilt and dirtiness poured onto bitter black coffee. I will not have skinny love, I will not have no cream, no sugar, no salt, no fat, no feelings. I will not have bare bones like a baby bird, I will have what feels alive. Before the nightmare. Within the nightmare.

I will have her silk against me again.

And if I pour down her throat, so be it. If she feels insecure and unsafe, so be it. I will never be secure without syrup, with nothing but a love heart made of love heartstrings. If I do not begin with bitterness, I cannot end sweet. I do not expect sweetness from the very start, I do not expect anything but accusation and the questions in her eyes: what happened to him? And why? What happened to us? And why?

I do not want her stripped to her love skeleton with no organs to understand my halting tongue. I do not want her the way I see, the way she sees: skinny love. I do not want her the way he sees: skinny love. I did not know skinny love in the dream before the nightmare, I will not know skinny love in the nightmare that comes after. I do not know skinny love who starves the few, me, and sustains the many, two.

I know her as she is, silk, soil, sugar, spite. I know the ride and the rip. I do not know the downcast eyes, the downcast heart that does not grieve. It does not have the fat or muscle to grieve, and bones do not grieve.

He calls her dream girl, my skinny love, half of what she was. He has half a dream, and I have a dream that runs thick and clots and overflows. I have a dream of being bloated, glutted, choking myself to death with her halting mouth.

Come on, skinny love, what happened here?