(no subject)
She’s there on Tuesday.
And her presence brings back that festering feeling in my gut. Her in that white cotton dress, sitting defiantly with her feet curled around my table. Her and those goddamned preternatural green eyes, blazing in to me and all I want to do is kiss her and then spit on her face.
“Do you love me?” Leave it to her to get right to the obvious; she’s well rehearsed in below the belt warfare. Moving past her, she brushes her hand against my thigh.
I‘ve never felt so disassembled.
“Well?” I can’t look at her, but I know that she’s cocking an anorexic eyebrow in my direction. I open the fridge and food has never looked so unappealing, not while she’s breathing. “Franklin, please,” her hands are grasping on my shirt, “just look at me…” There’s a whine in her voice, a weakness she never shared before. So turn around, let her scent overtake you, but just stare out the window. Concentrate on the trees, with their burning leaves, just not at her face; study the decaying branches, not the way that she pouts when she wants you to forgive her.
“What?” It’s not so much of a question as it is a surrender. Standing before her in just boxers and shorts and I’ve never felt so exposed, never felt such a need to curl in a fetal position at her feet and beg for her forgiveness, for all of the things that I never did. All of those veins that she busted, left to wither and die, came crashing at my feet, but side effects were never her style.