You are perfection here, like this. I hate you so much, but right now, on this ripped red couch, with the torn holes in your too loose jeans, the scar on your knee bright pink against that ghost colouring of your skin. I want to hurt you, I want to kiss you. I want to slap you and claw your face away but I want to hug you and keep you close. My mind is wrong, it is filled with hate conflicting with all the lust bubbling through my veins. This basement reeks, old beer and stale cigarettes. I can hear the steps of all the people around us, even as my mind is blurring. I should have rejected the hit, the small pink bubbler warm in my fragile boney hands. I don't even like Spice, but you do and as much as I want to smash the glass against your perfectly sculpted face, I want you to think I'm cool enough for you. I want to kiss your chest now, through the see through of that black v neck shirts. Boys in v necks usually make me assume they're gay. You might be gay, it would make sense, your masculinity is so weak. You are downright fragile sometimes. I hate being stronger than you. I hate being strong. There is a girl, in a tight pink shirt, her muffin top is visible, I hope you notice that. You're looking at her like she is delectable. The way you look at freshly rolled cigarettes and warm icecream. The way you looked at me once, you want her and that makes me want to kill her. I think I could kill someone, I really do. I want to scream at her, something obscene. I want to call her all the rude names I say in my head but never say out loud. I never say what I think. My mouth feels numb, like its melted butter, slipping over my tongue and down my throat too fast. I am caving inside myself. You don't even look at me. You get up, whisper something about having to pee, I think, but I cant grip onto your words. I know where your going, I can see the muffin top girl eyeing you, I see her steps, seconds after yours but my head wont let me hold them. I slide down onto the couch. The stupid purple and blue lights are flickering. They look like lightning bugs. There is a boy near me, he smells and i can see the dots of acne of his skin, I can feel his hands on my stomach and my mouth wont let me protest, I need someone to look over to save me from whats about to happen. My eyes wont stay open, my skin is numb and every time my eyelids flutter shut I see you, I see when we are happy and then I am gone.
I used to go to church when I was little, I dont know why the drugs take me back to this, but I can see it. Black curls, white tights, a little pink dress. I can see my mother, sweet and soft, contrasting the hardness of my father, up on the big stage, his eyes wide, spittle in the corner of his mouth as he damns people. Everyone is clapping and he pulls me on stage. He smells like hangover masked in cologne. From here, I can't see my mothers bruises, from up here, everyone looks pretty and safe. I hated how hard he held me. Like I was moving away, like an anchor. Too hard for the smallness of me. My mother just smiled and wiggled her thin long fingers. Everyone loved us. They didn't hear her cry at night, begging to just leave, scraping at the door to my room, begging to just let go. She wanted to die, she wanted to get away from him, forever. In the church, everyone touched her so softly, promised her a heaven, a merciful god. She told me once, that there was no god. There was nothing left but us, humans, soulless shells. I've never told you this, I don't think about it. It's over now.
There is rain on my face when I wake up. It feels like rain but its red. I can see your fist and I prepare for the sting, but I don't feel anything. Then, I remember the boy, the pressure of him on me, I want to be sick, and I try to stand. My feet give in and my hands slap against the cement floor. I know they will sting tomorrow, when the feelings return to my body. I hear the yelling, the hitting, the blood dripping down next to me. I can feel my stomach turn and lurch. I want to puke and cry, but I cant gag it out. I feel your hands now, softer than the boys, your guide my shoulders out of the basement, up those wooden steps I almost fell down on the way in. Your breath is hot against my neck and i feel your blood somewhere against my shoulders. You are angry, more than angry, you are furious. I want to ask you about the muffin top girl, but then you might leave me here and I can't make it home alone.
The apartment is cool and somehow I manage into the bathroom and I puke. Gripping the toilet bowl like I am going to fall in and drown. You didn't flush before we left and I can smell your urine each time I heave the contents of my already empty stomach. you don't hold my hair back, I hear the liquor cabinet door. I wish you didn't hate me like I hate you. I can see my breath when my head hits the floor. The little gasps dissipating in front of me. I can smell it, the sour stench of puke, the warmth of menthol cigarettes, the chinese food i purged up hours before. I want to die here, on this tile, where drops of dried blood from shaving cuts and scratches from a fight before. Your foot steps snap me out of it and there you are, so beautifully disgusting. I hate you so much, but I need you to save me. You pick me up by my shoulders, I don't hear your words but I can see it flash in your eyes. Please hit me, please break me, kiss me, fuck me, anything. You keep screaming, I cant catch the words, just the endings. You shake me, I feel your rage, you think I wanted that boy, you think I felt him. I try to imagine your hands strongers, grasping me closer, I keep sobbing, but I don't hear it. I am dying. I know I am dying. We scream for hours, throwing things across the room, breaking bottles and slamming doors.
"How did she feel" these words I hear, my mouth moves and the sound is audible, your eyes meet mine, the knowledge that your dark secrets are not so hidden shocks you. Your face crumples and you try to explain. My mouth is thick with hate now, I do not want explanations. I want to hurt you. I want to slam your pathetic face into the wall. Instead I tell you to leave, I scramble up off the floor, past your feet, screaming obscenities, shouting jumbles of vowels in your direction. The window is opened and a blast of wind whips my face, my hair slashing away into my eyes. I wish I could jump out, hit the concrete with a silent sigh, feel at peace.
"I hate you" your voice shakes me, my skin bursting into violent tremors of terror. You have it there in your head, the too heavy metal, the burn of power. You raise it, and I know you are going to kill me. There is something so romatic in this though, the sweat visible through your shirt, if we were in a movie there would be music, instumental and soft. They are going to write about it in newspapers. The two young drug addicts, the bullimic brunette, the tortured soul. The brilliant writer, the tall boyfriend, the ending. We will be portrayed by Natalie Portman and Johnny Depp, everyone will buy tickets and wait in the snow to watch our story be played out by gorgeous people, a soundtrack added into the sick world of us. People will try to find something relatable in us, but there is nothing. In the end we are just fucked up individuals, and you are just a murderer. I hear the click and my eyes flick closed. I wait for the flash, for my life to glaze over the sting. I wait for the sound and the sharp pain, I wait for anything.
Slow motion is painful. The sound rings in my ears, the smell invades my nose. I wait, for so long, I hold onto the idea that everything is quiet because it is me lying in the floor. This is my blood, it has to be my blood. Where are you, are you running, are your feet smashing against the stairs in panic. Are you afraid of the police, the too tight handcuffs. Are you too pretty to go to prison. I can't feel anything, I barely hear the door squeak open, the nosy neighbor scream. Her hands are on me, I see them, dark tan, checking for wounds, I open my eyes and see you, laying there, those stone eyes open, piercing me. I hate you for this.
