She was one of those digital girls you run into online. She carried a gun, and never wore underwear. She kept a blog; you’d read it once, but then you lost the address, and with it, the key to her heart.

The key to her heart is a long chain of computer commands.

If: Then: 
Run/Stop/Run
Command Prompt: Climax

She types to me. I type back at her. We write a story that’s mostly made of lies perverts would masturbate over. She mostly writes me letters when she’s lonely and looking for someone to touch. She mostly sends me abstract images of bodies in motion. 

Kicking on a swing.
Disembodied arms in a bed.
Sunshine on a cunt.
Breasts that drip like honey.

I twitch, uncomfortable in my seat. She smiles, and says something that sounds like six kinds of threats. 

“Do you think you’ve got the strength to love me?”

I want to throw her to the floor. I want to tear her deceptions from her form. I want to reveal something real, and then revel in it. I want to bathe in her honesty, like it was a languid pool I could dip down to the bottom of.

She mostly just wants to fuck. Backs to the wall and hearts so close they’re almost touching. 

She burns up my pants, and locks the door.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I do,” I said.

She punctured each one of my phrases with a bullet to the gut. I sucked up lead in my midsection and spurted blood across the parking lot like a sprinkler trying to grow grass. 

“I want to be yours forever,” I explained, as she put the blade in between my ribs, tickling my heart with the tip of the knife. Yeah, she tickles my heart like I’m falling for her, like I’m falling and falling and falling.

Head over her heals; she wears those big long jagged things; they’re decorated with the hearts and minds of all the other men she had to step over and through to get to me.

If I could be anything, I’d be dead in your arms.
I’d be dead-on accurate. 
I’d be dead on arrival.  
Dead on impact.

The trick, with smoking pot, as with loving lovers, is to remember to hold it all in for as long as you can.

I turned on the radio.

“I am in love with you, in love with you, in love with you, and it hurts.”

These aren’t real songs; it’s not even plugged in. The airwaves are silent, out here by the sea. Big clouds eat radiowaves before they broadcast anything that’d take away from the isolation you feel out here.

Or maybe that feeling of isolation is just me. Maybe I like being this way. 

I turned on the radio like I was arousing a strange and fretful robot lover. Some sort of mechanized mistress who’d kiss my cuts and tuck me into bed before she blew my mind with her oral sex algorhythms. 

“And when I say you sucked my brains out,
The English translation is,
I am in love with you,
And it is no fun.”

Those were real lyrics, from a real song. Real feeling too.

I wonder what it’d be like to have real feelings, instead of words on a page.
But I don’t wonder very loudly.