Pete Wentz is my hero.
after awhile when you bounce back and forth between different hearts nothing gets old. you never really have to mean anything to anyone. i have intimacy problems with the world. her eyes are blackened around the edges so much that she looks like a racoon. they look like permenant black eyes- the consumate victim. everybody loves the victim. he can’t put his finger on what it reminds him of but the closest he can come are old zombie movies. she’s made-up to look half dead- which still beats most of them who are just half-alive anyway. her hair looked like rows of shark teeth dyed over dye jobs like she was running away from her natural color. noone wants to be what they are. she looks independent in a very vulnerable way. the safest kind of dangerous. we drove around the city so she could alternate between cigarettes and coffee. we talk about the kids we hate just so we have something to agree about. they used to be just like us. we’re sitting on the edge of her bed. every single inch on your body is filled with millions of nerves. somewhere inside your brain neurons have fired to synapses and put them on alert. when your hands brush hers it feels electric. every movement has a meaning, either yes or no. its getting later and later. the conversation and the possibilities are running out. last call. this is a war. everytime she moves her hand to her hair she is sending you signals. stay or leave. why can’t you figure them out. don’t strike first. wait until you are tired enough to make a move. lean in to kiss her bringing an awkward break in conversation. as you pull back she keeps talking about writers and bands she thinks will make her look cooler. but you're fooled if only because you are worried she has found you out. push your tongue into her mouth to keep the right words from spilling out. her sheets smell like stale cigarettes smoked by boys who were me on nights before. she has a body that is built for sex. the kind a kid like me wouldn’t know what to do with if we had half the chance. imagine the chemistry of swallowed DNA. she has a scar that runs down her back right along the spine, like somebody tried to steal it. i joked her like this: “someone must have ignored the blue prints, look at all the structural damage”. but i stuttered and trailed off. the smoke curled off of her lips. for a second i was dying to be it. dying to be as clever and kissable as her. there she was sitting in front of me, knee pulled up to to her chin. smoking a cigarette thinking of something or someone else. and thats how she will be stuck in my mind forever. two explorers in the dark, mapless and hopeless. alone together. its funny how easy it is to sleep with someone, but how hard it is to sleep next to someone. it’s too intimate. it makes my heartbeat race and pound inside my head. it is deafening. i slide my arm from behind her head and slip out the door. the pavement on the sidewalk is watching me go over every moment in my head. it’s watching me remember you. mistake by mistake. frame by frame. we’re not just taking trips down memory lane, we are broken down on it.