Mar 2012
I promised myself. I met you and I did everything I could to bring you down, to break your obvious beliefs in your beauty. I worked and worked to get you to feel like ****, so that I saw you as nothing but a filthy little ****. An average adolescent marring the face of society. I assumed you knew you were flawless. I mean, how could you not? Look at you! Listen to you! Listen to me. I promised myself I would not let this happen.
But it happened. That’s what I keep telling myself: It. Just. Happened to be the right things you said to get me feeling this way. How you asked me simple questions and actually cared about the answer. Cared about me. But I just kept whispering, “He’s nothing, he’s nothing, he’s nothing but the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Brad, you can not **** this up.”
Yet here I am. Sitting in this archaic basement, listening to your words as they shift my views. Listening to my heart as it beats ever faster. The drugs in my veins urge me, they beg me to pull you in. To show you how much I care for you, how many questions I can ask and actually listen for the answer. Tell me it all. My hands glide behind your head and I lean in. Inches away, you whisper, “I’m in love with her.”
My head shifts to make this almost-kiss an always-hug. Her. The girl that makes you happy. That fair creature with her carcinogenic cheeks and strings of average hair. Her bountiful mind of average thoughts. Her average *******. I can’t be that, not for anyone. Not even for you.
You ask me what to say. How to tell someone you are in love with them. So I speak, your arms wrapped around me in the pale darkness of my eyelids. I tell you everything I have wanted to say. I give my speech that I have prepared in the lonely darkness of my room, or in the nights spent staring at you as you sleep beside me. I tell you I love you.
The saturated lights of reality bleed in as my eyes hesitantly open. “Well spoken, Brad,” you whisper in my ear, right in my ear. Your breath is warm, and I want it. Your pulse is slowed, I have to raise it. Your mind is made, and I can never change it. So I give you an always-hug, and imagine that never-kiss.
“Tell her that,” I say, “And there’s no way in hell she can turn you down.”
But it happened. That’s what I keep telling myself: It. Just. Happened to be the right things you said to get me feeling this way. How you asked me simple questions and actually cared about the answer. Cared about me. But I just kept whispering, “He’s nothing, he’s nothing, he’s nothing but the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Brad, you can not **** this up.”
Yet here I am. Sitting in this archaic basement, listening to your words as they shift my views. Listening to my heart as it beats ever faster. The drugs in my veins urge me, they beg me to pull you in. To show you how much I care for you, how many questions I can ask and actually listen for the answer. Tell me it all. My hands glide behind your head and I lean in. Inches away, you whisper, “I’m in love with her.”
My head shifts to make this almost-kiss an always-hug. Her. The girl that makes you happy. That fair creature with her carcinogenic cheeks and strings of average hair. Her bountiful mind of average thoughts. Her average *******. I can’t be that, not for anyone. Not even for you.
You ask me what to say. How to tell someone you are in love with them. So I speak, your arms wrapped around me in the pale darkness of my eyelids. I tell you everything I have wanted to say. I give my speech that I have prepared in the lonely darkness of my room, or in the nights spent staring at you as you sleep beside me. I tell you I love you.
The saturated lights of reality bleed in as my eyes hesitantly open. “Well spoken, Brad,” you whisper in my ear, right in my ear. Your breath is warm, and I want it. Your pulse is slowed, I have to raise it. Your mind is made, and I can never change it. So I give you an always-hug, and imagine that never-kiss.
“Tell her that,” I say, “And there’s no way in hell she can turn you down.”
