Duplicity [h.s]

59

I'm just gonna leave this picture here without an explanation... you'll get it though.

I was always told that my captivation for electricity would lead me to incredible highs and dangerous lows in my existence. The natural ludicrous that ached my blood for stimulating shock was something I always found myself a prisoner too. I didn't like the dangerous things in life, I always coursed into making the right decisions like there was someone watching my every move. My whole life I cemented to the path of internal cleanliness and prosperity—my personality being an abundance of good graces and hard work. Grandma always told me I was a people pleaser, no matter where I went. I always strived to make her proud, to put on a joyous smile and play a cynical game of make believe that everything in my own world was perfect just so she could sleep at night. But when you immerse yourself in an act of perfection for so long, you start to forget who you really are when the curtains close. When you're alone on your bed with your knees to your chest, surrounded by all your masks laying stagnant on the bedding—you fall a victim to the criminals of indifference.

You're simply numb.

You try so hard not to feel things after the bad luck of people revolving in and out of your life, each taking a different piece of you within their vast exit. You just put a smile on your face and avoid; you avoid and avoid and avoid until you merely forget about the pain and what you were trying to hide. Life starts feeling like a cycle of distracting routines and dull moments until you start to find yourself doing things in dissociating thoughts. You stand in the mirror after your hot shower, rugged towel tight around your chest while you just stare at the mascara residue under your eyes for a worrisome amount of time. You discover situations where you just couldn't help but touch that hot lightbulb with the tip of your finger, knowing it will burn but for some reason needing to feel certain about something. It's the state of being numb, and when you finally strive to reach that point, you wish nothing more then to get out of it.

It's a trap, it's always a trap.

Wanting not to feel so you don't have to be in unfixable pain anymore. The minute you go numb, you wish you could take it all back. You forget who you are, and you hate what you've become. You continue the smiles, the laughter, the act of the perfection—but deep down was nothing but a hollow box with a chilling wind the sound of brick tunnel.

That's why I love electricity.

Figuratively it made me feel something, shocking me down to my core like it was jumpstarting a dormant vessel in my heart. Sometimes it hurt, but only for a second. It made me feel warmth, the hairs of my arm standing up as my blood sent a pinching shiver down my back like a melting ice cube. Searching for this feeling wasn't easy, especially because the high would only last a second of time. I was frightened of the dangers carried with it—but electricity was my weak spot.

And as his lips were grazing up my neck, exuding hot air down the back of my shoulder—I felt that electricity. It was giving me a mirage of joyous colours in my head and a lovesick flutter in my stomach. It arched a smile on my face and sealed my eyes shut at the same time, lolling my head back against the hard elevator wall as I respire torrid air into the confined space. This was the type of electricity I was told to watch out for, the only area in my life where I didn't care about making the right decision.

Because when his hands roamed my body in urgency to pull me closer with anyway he could, I was in the stars. His grip traces down the damp fabric of my thin tank top, ending right at my ass to where he gives it a squeeze and pulls my body against his hips. The arch of my back leaving the wall and pressing against his dexterous build was enough for me to blindly grab him in anyway I could fathom. I grasp his biceps, soft skin blanketing solid muscles that were almost flexing from his tight grip on me. His sinister lips kiss and suck, sometimes nick. In pure lust he made evident that he was going to leave his mark on me again, imprinting himself a reminder of what this late night will become.