(no subject)
This is the type of heartbreak she enjoys the least. It is not fast and heavy, crashing and ultimately consuming, but rather slow and indiscriminately light. It is perpetuated by the schizophrenic dancing of shadows, the touching of foreign mouths, and her constant careening from person to person-constantly a fly being swatted around. This heartbreak is deceptively easy; it is not melodramatic nor does it come accompanied with the frantic spin of violins. A tear here, a confession there-it squeaks by almost as insignificant as a polite cough. It appears to be an unwelcome dinner guest, staying far too long and neglecting (if almost out of spite) to bring a small gift of wine. Yet even worse, are the breadcrumb trails he leaves, as if to invite her to glut herself-she is in the wrong fairytale. She has crashed gracelessly into his arms, unaware that he is an oven, not a prince. He seduces her this way. This doesn’t seem to faze her however, for she is used to things worse than the shattering of a porcelain heart. It’s no big dig- she says, her adolescent jargon getting the better of her. She ravenously follows him; he tightens his invisible leash every single day. She constantly sets a place for him at the table. Occasionally he comes, occasionally it remains empty and she sigh, sigh, sighs-disappointment with the void filled by the same empty space, the same lack of his face, the same lack of tangible matter. He doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know that she is patiently waiting, perched, a perfectly manicured talon bearing down on the table. Oh, no, he doesn’t know. She seeks to glut herself on him, but never seems to get too close. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe it’s a bad time. No, no, no-it’s all his fault. It’s not his fault of course, how could it be, he’s an unwilling victim of her projections-he never asked to be the muse for her prose.
Accidentally electric. Accidentally touching. Accidentally kissing. He taps S.O.S as he rubs her back, but she is as consuming as water-she is drowning him in her imagination. She pretends he enjoys caving to the flood. She knows better, but she can’t seem to help it. She’ll curse him the next day with the same invocations of “you fascist, you fascist, you fascist!” the same ones she uses when sophomorically terrorizing her father. She’ll recede into a silence that is most unbecoming-she’ll stare catatonically into the gingery blackness of the night. But he taps S.O.S as he rubs her back. Someone should save him, throw a life preserver out-for she is a frantic sea. She has a strange stare, reminiscent of an echo-a stain, a jarring blot of some kind, that seems to unsettle him. Starry, yet deranged. It’s a messy enterprise, the interpretation of this stare-for in order to fully grasp it, you must separate the girl from the brain, and the brain from the girl. It is something divorced for any logic whatsoever, leaving a pure emotional surge that can leave one breathless. However, when used on the wrong person, it seems to place oceans, bodies, rooms between them. She hasn’t learned to reign herself in yet-she hasn’t learned to tame the force of nature that seems to rage inside of every person. Overstatement. She is craving the undulation of bodies that seem to fit perfectly as puzzle pieces, the frantic tearing of clothes and the awkward positioning that seems to follow a sonorous sound (a moan, an echo-a lover’s secret language). She thinks in terms of I, you, we, me, he, she; she dreams in conjoined pronouns. He’s not quite sure what’s wrong with her; he’s not particularly well equipped to deal with her. He's just really confused.