We're back at square negative one. Always back at negative one, no matter what I do, no matter what you say. We'd be so close, so close, and then she'd appear back on your doorstep yet again, red hair covering her eyes, shielding her emotions as she commenced begging, pleading, 'Baby, I'm sorry! I won't do it again!' but we all know the truth.
Square negative one. Never square one, we always skip it. Because we do know each other, know every nook and cranny of our bodies, the bunny shaped birthmark with three ears on my hip, and that clandestine minute tattoo of rebellion only she, you and I, know of. So we always dart back to square negative one, because we're supposed to be at square one, and you know we're far from that.
All that tension. Sexual tension, because you love her, but you can't fend from my sensual body, and you just keep coming back again. And yet she never notices. Do you think she's really that blind, mister? Either she's such a blonde – yes, she's more of a blonde than I'd ever be, even though I'm the one with little melanin – or she simply doesn't care enough. If she'd cared enough she'd be crying in your strong embrace, with your arms circled around her somewhere before this. It's been years, that's enough to break any 'innocent, fragile girl who needs me', as you put it. And me too, in fact. Don't forget my Chemical Romanced, Disenchanted heart.
Why must you always do this? Carrying on nonchalantly, then sneak to my house and perceive another woman's face when we're doing it. You're breaking down and you know it. You also know she's never going to be here to stay, but you just keep hoping in futility. Why must you always go back to a stranger you never had?
Screw this, honestly. Screw her, and you too. I'm sick and tired of all this crap. I don't want to have to hope, fervently praying as I tiptoe on tenterhooks everyday that she won't just poof back here again and throw our lives into topsy-turvy chaos, because you're the weak link, and you better fucking know it.
Why are we at square negative one again?
Why are we?
If I jump now, will we go back to our rightful places?
You don't know, do you? That makes two of us. I do know, though, that you'd remember me in all my glory in your bottomless plague of guilt.
Let's try it.
Well. An odd piece of work. I wanted to do something more morbid, but, I thought of the phrase 'chewing my nails', and the unsavoury mental image of a grown, flabby male chewing his grimy, sweat and dead skin filled toenails on his hairy feet. And was sufficiently repulsed.
If I die, I want to jump. (If I'm going to die by some health condition, to hell with it! I rather jump.)
The thrill. Plunging down to... nothing and everything, I suppose. It's like bungee jumping with all the added thrill of instinctive danger receptions. Bungee jumping is just for the wind. You don't get the flash of 'I'm going to die!' which is the whole point of it.
Why pass up such a chance?