I'm not a liar. I'm an omitter .
Don't worry.
Your life at the moment is only a distraction from reality.
What? No.
Or maybe reality is a distraction from your life.
Oh, I like the latter better.
Wait. No.
I don't like either of those at all.
Do I get a third option?
No?
Well.
Fuck you, then, God.
You don't even exist.
You're talking to yourself, again. Are you even aware of it, anymore?
Completely. Lately, though, it's been easier to talk to me than anyone else.
I was born to live in the city.
My skin is even clearer in polluted air.
Smog makes it easier for me to breathe.
Glass snapping then tinkling under the thin, worn soles of my shoes is music to my ears.
Always has been.
I love you, but I'm sorry, our days our numbered.
The city will, inevitably and without warning, swallow me whole.
Where will you be?
I hope you're not at the other end of that rope tied around my waist.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
Tapping your feet and wringing your hands.
Waiting impatiently for the day these buildings topple down on top of me so you, the hero, with one swift jerk, like those days of tug of war back in summer camp,
can pull me out of the rubble before I'm completely immersed in cement.
Through the thickness of the dust, you'll see me bathing in it in ecstasy.
You'll see me crying tears of comfort and gladness.
Then...
To the sounds of steel and stone violently dismantling itself, your moment of self proclaimed heroism finally arrives.
Christ, you're excited.
HEAVE..
I feel you tug.
HEAVE..
Dear God, don't you dare!
HO!
I scream, this time in down right agony, in tune with my ribs crushing under the pressure of your line tightening around them.
You drag me out limp and lifeless.
You're horrified.
I open my eyes.
Face black from dirt and debris.
Blood trickling from the corners of my mouth.
Don't you say it. Don't you even think it.
I told you so.
Your life at the moment is only a distraction from reality.
What? No.
Or maybe reality is a distraction from your life.
Oh, I like the latter better.
Wait. No.
I don't like either of those at all.
Do I get a third option?
No?
Well.
Fuck you, then, God.
You don't even exist.
You're talking to yourself, again. Are you even aware of it, anymore?
Completely. Lately, though, it's been easier to talk to me than anyone else.
I was born to live in the city.
My skin is even clearer in polluted air.
Smog makes it easier for me to breathe.
Glass snapping then tinkling under the thin, worn soles of my shoes is music to my ears.
Always has been.
I love you, but I'm sorry, our days our numbered.
The city will, inevitably and without warning, swallow me whole.
Where will you be?
I hope you're not at the other end of that rope tied around my waist.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
Tapping your feet and wringing your hands.
Waiting impatiently for the day these buildings topple down on top of me so you, the hero, with one swift jerk, like those days of tug of war back in summer camp,
can pull me out of the rubble before I'm completely immersed in cement.
Through the thickness of the dust, you'll see me bathing in it in ecstasy.
You'll see me crying tears of comfort and gladness.
Then...
To the sounds of steel and stone violently dismantling itself, your moment of self proclaimed heroism finally arrives.
Christ, you're excited.
HEAVE..
I feel you tug.
HEAVE..
Dear God, don't you dare!
HO!
I scream, this time in down right agony, in tune with my ribs crushing under the pressure of your line tightening around them.
You drag me out limp and lifeless.
You're horrified.
I open my eyes.
Face black from dirt and debris.
Blood trickling from the corners of my mouth.
Don't you say it. Don't you even think it.
I told you so.