I think the only thing that works with you is affectations. I know how you feel and I know how I feel. But I also know that screams to no one are probably more effective. And perhaps my screaming isn’t for you anyway. The night is sort of used to being deaf and dumb. I scream into my pillow and feel the spit gather and pool. I type in ALL CAPS, then time your metronomic response.
But now, when I can’t help but think about you–his smile in that picture when I know he fucks you later that night; that second betrayal–the part of my torso, the call of my heart is exploding with whatever chemicals say, “Fuck that.” I go to the next thought about why I hate you, or maybe I eat this surge in my chest this once. And I’m not quite sure what I would do if you were in actual arms reach. Would I reach for you?
That ferrous taste when there’s blood in your mouth lets you know something rusted. That chewing on your cheek in angst wasn’t all in vain, there were consequences. Part of me still loves you and that part wants you to know that smell.
You ask sometimes what I am thinking. I think you say it to fill the empty space of quiet; I’m sure you are not particularly interested in the answer. The verb “to think” does not have the required nuance I need to explain to you my real-time interpretation of what I see and hear at any given moment.