confliction/first love

    • confliction/first love

      She is exceptional. She flourishes despite the overcast. It enrages you. You feel unbridled jealousy as she eats like shit and still possesses a magnetism. You don’t want to share her. You want to keep her radiance on your shelf, as your own personal nightlight and sunlamp. But you are limited to fleeting, transitory moments of sunrise and sunset. You hate the temporality of everything. Temporality used to be your crutch.

      You hate her for making you like this.

      She is sleeping. Muted dawnlight backlights her. Even in the morning shadows, she glows, ethereal and so, so beautiful. You feel the hate, pneumatic in your torso. It metastasizes to your jaw and worms its way into your enamel. She rests unguarded and you are thankful for your impulse control. You want to suffocate her with your pillow.

      You catch her smiling at you with half-moon eyes. Her hand is cold and gentle like shadecast moss against your cheek. You have never had anyone touch you like she does. You are fighting the wildfire; protecting the secluded knoll that she has shared with you.

      She is glad you stayed. She might fall back asleep. You are glad for that.

      She asks you how you slept. You did not sleep. You lie and tell her, “well.”

      Her arms creep around your torso, solid and stable. You do not feel secure; you almost feel claustrophobic. She tucks her head into the crook of your neck. You are overwhelmed by the smell of her shampoo. Fruity and sweet. It churns your empty stomach. Your collarbone meets her jaw and you feel it vibrate when she speaks. It’s not surprising. Her words already shake you.

      “I love you,” she mumbles and you didn’t hear it, but you feel the phrase against your skin. It is packaged with a smile. You can feel that too. You are glad she cannot see your expression, but she probably feels you flinch. You are terrified. You are angry. And god, you are hungry.

      The words break you and she is inside. She has seen an opening in your latticework composure. She is going to tear through and try to rip away the sinew and purulence inside you. She is going to find nothing. You have quarantined. For the both of you.

      Your heartbeat rattles again in your ribcage. This cannot continue. She has inoculated you with this sickness.

      You extricate yourself from her embrace. The room is cold and the floorboards seem to scream the words that neither of you say. The world is spinning a kaleidoscopic decoupage of greys and purples bouncing off every surface. You are accustomed to distortion. You gather your belongings and the splintered fragments of your composure that she seems to chew like toothpicks.

      But she is silent as you go. You do not look at her, but you know her expression. It is echoing off the walls of this attic. The sickness is coursing through your veins. You had underestimated the power of her antivenom. Within your emotional maelstrom, there are blips of regret. Your infrastructure is not prepared for this storm.

      She understands.

      You hate that she understands.
      #1 goro akechi apologist