She tells me she wants to know what heartbreak feels like.

And we are in darkness, she is under me.
We're a sweaty heap of breast upon nipple-ringed breast and I start laughing.
I start laughing and cackling and spilling all over the place.

"You're never together, Dee," she tells me with a frown between her legs and double-jointed fingers.
But I can't stop this laughter because it's ridiculous, this life. It's amazingly ridiculous.
My chest moves up and down, up and down. I am up and down.

"There is no God," she tells me, biting lips, sinking her nails into the nook of my back.
She attacks me, this one. She heart-attacks me.

And the part that keeps me gasping for air in between the giggles and the "Fuck..."'s is the sickening reality of those letters of hers. Of mine, really.
Those vowels and consonants that always haunt my awake and cause me to teeter on the edge of time and this too-much-for-my-own-good space.
Goddamn, it's dark in here but what is love, anyway?

"You know it, right? You'll never be good," she tells me, pulling at hair and ripping away strands of former lives, former faces, former nothings.
And I can't breathe now. I can't close my mouth and stop the heaving constrictions of my larynx, this cackling cackle laughter.
But it feels good. Her hands feel good to me.

And we are water at sea, tiny droplets smashing against a red-blue submarine.
God, it's awful, this life. It's amazingly awful.

"Dee," she tells me. "I can't do this anymore, Dee. You shouldn't do this anymore."
"Dee," she tells me. "I think I'm leaving, Dee. I think you're leaving me."
"Dee," she tells me. "What's wrong with you, Dee? What's wrong with you, anyway?"

And I hiccup philosophical vomit; closing my legs, my arms, my bedroom-ceiling eyes because I am always

So she disappears.
She vanishes beneath me; another shadow for my wall. Another trophy for this soteriophobia.
And I'm all wet and bothered, covered in salt-water. What a laugh.
What a laugh and a cackle and a –
I don't know what's wrong with me.
But this life, you know, this life is so amazingly ridiculous and so amazingly awful.

"Babe," I tell no one with a chuckle in my belly, metal on my tongue. "Laugh a little, babe. You need to laugh a little."

A/N: This was written for the Writing Contest Game at the Roadhouse. Check it out.