The empty space of quiet

I think the only thing that works with you are 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 anyone 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 arm’s reach. Would I even 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. 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.  I think you say it to fill the empty space of quiet; I’m sure you are not particularly interested in the answer.

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