BURN (Wattys2015?)

stupid bitch

"What is your problem? You've been moody all night." She runs a hand through my hair but I straighten up out of reach.
"Stop." I shake my head slightly, frowning.
"Stop what?" She giggles, misinterpreting the message. She ruffles my hair, leaning into me. She's drowning me in her smell and texture and I can't think straight. And for some reason, it pisses me off.
"Jesus, why are you so fucking annoying sometime?" I stand up abruptly, and she flops back on the couch, stunned.
She's a wounded animal now, frightened and hurt. But instead of lashing out like I expect her to, like I want her to, she crawls to me and tries to comfort me.
"What's wrong? Are you okay? Talk to me. I'm here." Her voice is soft and velvety, but grates on my frayed nerves like sandpaper.
"What's wrong? How about the fact that you've been acting like a dumb bitch lately? Do you have to be so stupid all the time?"
I laugh bitterly and mash my face in my hands, groaning in frustration. I'm so mad, so pissed. I see red and nothing else, and it confuses me. Which pisses me off even more.
I don't know why humans feel how they do. People can try to explain it all they want, saying it's environment and chemical reactions, but I think there's more to it. More to why we tick a certain way. Maybe there's such a thing as a soul, and maybe that's why. I don't know, and I don't think I'll ever find an answer.
"Oh my god, what is wrong with you? You're being an asshole for no damn reason." She's angry now, I can tell even without her fighting words. It's the way her left eyebrow twitches, her face heats up, and her fists clench.
"That's because you're always all up in my face, like damn! Give me some space." I'm shouting now, and I'm starting to sweat.
This is all so familiar. I've done this before, with a different girl. Everything else looks the same, though. The place is still the same, the words are still the same. The girl even looks the same. But she's not the same girl and I'm not the same boy and it ruins everything.
I can't look at her, because she's starting to cry. So I look at the paintings on the walls, from the days I was bored and tired and needed to breathe through a brush. I want to cover them now. They're too raw and busy and annoying like everything else is all the sudden.
Like the creak in the floorboards right by the door, I've been meaning to fix that. Or the crack in the ceiling of the kitchen, above the chandelier. The other one had tried to swing from the chandelier, in a bit of drunken fun.
Finally I look at some ornamental plates on the wall, painted by my mother's mother or something. Someone had hung them there, to freshen up my "dank" vibe, and I hated those damn plates with a burning passion I could barely contain. They were hideously happy, and gloriously tacky. I wanted to smash them, but I didn't want to get violent. Those plates would be the death of me. Maybe I'd smash them and slice my wrists. And then I'd paint over the damn murals with my blood. That'd be a mess I wouldn't have to clean up.
But I can't do that now. I don't even know if I could do that later. But I give the plates the best hateful death glare I can summon. They don't fall off and shatter like I want them to. They stay on the wall, hanging so precariously. Damn.
She interrupts my silent rant with a defeated sigh. I turn my glare to her, but she's shrank into herself, and I can't keep the fire going.
"Is this about my sister?" She looks away, ashamed.
I don't know why, but I've always hated to talk about her fucking sister. It's easy to write about her, but I can't ever find the words to say about her. My voice is useless when it comes to her sister.
"Why is everything always about your sister?" I'm no longer fire, I'm ice. Cold and hard. And it gets to her, it works its way under her skin like a knife, causing her to become smaller than before.
Why am I doing this?
"I don't know, why is it? You tell me." She throws her hands up, shrugging.
Why do humans do that? Throw there hands up in surrender?
"Maybe because I'd rather be fucking her than you. But oh, look, she's dead."
And why are humans so cruel sometime?
There is a silence that's thick and harsh. I don't know how she finds the energy to cut through it and gather her things, but somehow she does.
She takes a few minutes to gather her thoughts, to find something to say.
"You know, you're one of the kindest people I know." She's crying now. Why did I have to make her cry? "But you're also one of the damn cruelest."