there isn't much that hurts me. needles, cat scratches, rug burn. it all goes away with time. paper cuts, nosebleeds, black eyes. nothing will ever compare to a measly few words pouring out of her lips.
"i just don't feel the same anymore"
i do. i feel the same as always. i looked at myself this morning and saw the same reflection, didn't die in my sleep. i ate the same breakfast, oatmeals with honey and blueberries. i drove to school in my little old bug. here i am. with her. and i feel the same about her. in love.
"annabel, what the hell?" i don't know what else to say.
i guess you can call me pathetic because i pound my fist on the locker next to hers and slam hers. except it closes on her fingers. she shrieks. that same shriek i've heard under sheets in a sensual place. the same shriek that escapes when i pinch her sides and kiss her neck while she's pouring cereal.
"goddamnit, vincent" she dropped the box on the floor and the tiled floors became a rainbow of sugary cereal. she'd make me clean it up with a dust pan and brush then cuddle her on the couch.
her fingers drip blood. a lot of people are looking.
"babe, i'm so sorry" i grab her bloody hand.
she yanks it away. vin, she doesn't feel the same. just walk away. leave it.
someone brings annabel a bandaid. holy shit, i want to be that bandaid. i want to weave through her bony little fingers she uses to create soft melodies on the keys of her dad's old piano. i want to be her chapstick. to be smeared on those lips she uses to hum along to her music.
