This constant connect-the-four-dots-that-would-make-a-square-if-the-one-dot- wasn’t-such-an-outlier thing is eating my skin, my bones, my eyelashes, my smile, everything. You are going to lose and it’s difficult to feel bad for you, even with that smile those eyes the way your hands feel in my hair, even with all of this and the past stupidity that I am so naturally inclined to grasp with every inch of skin on my hands, you will lose. I’m floating along but staying in this same place that swallows me whole, tears my skin apart in a healthy attempt to inject life into pores that otherwise lay still and void of colour.
I laid down on the earth and soaked it all in, the grass seducing my feet tenderly, the bugs begging to enter between my cold lips, eyes closed, pretending that the heat of the summer could make me forget how it felt every single time. What, do you think that I can’t taste you anymore? The wind was teasing my tangled pride as I imagined myself slowly flying upward, raising my arms into the sunshine that was so perfectly heating my skin. There is something about the way he looks at me, knowing how completely imperfect humans are and seeing me in a completely different light. What is it about me? I can’t look at you like I look at the ones who have killed me in the past, the way you walk talk touch breathe live connects our cores with an invisible string, constantly moving extending molding to the way we exist. I want you to float with me but you’re already floating, floating away then back then closer and closer until you’re a part of what I have come to hate, self-loathing that lasts an hour at least, desire that pours into my glass with one stare in the right direction, one movement in the right manner. I cannot predict the winner but if history choses to repeat itself, she will end up in a pool of blood that swallows her whole. Without denial, the end is the end.
