You never liked me, you just liked my status update.

I wish you and me could be arch enemies, you know? I wish we could’ve known each other for years, and sort of fallen in love, and now we’re caught in this contest of wills, one of those weird things that only a couple of really powerfully intense people can get into, something that fucks up other people’s lives and shit. 

I smoke until I get dizzy enough for you to take advantage of me. I suck back sunshine and I exude pure emotional damage; it comes off me, in thick wavy lines of radiation. It turns the concrete of the sidewalk into soup, it melts down skyscrapers like they were candles, singed for trying to climb too close to the sun.

Come, get close to me.

Come on, get close to me.

I’m lonely, or hungry, or I feel like fucking somebody up. I really feel like fucking somebody up, emotionally. I feel like being some sort of parasite, or a leach, or a vampire bat from a creepy 1950’s B-movie. I want to wound you, to rip you apart, to make you fall in love with me and to tear you apart. I wanna tear you apart. I-

We’re not so different, you and I. Us self-hating fuckers, just in love enough to get off on the friction of the ego rubbing on the edges of the everything else. Just in love, or in luck, or alone. Yeah, you’re just alone, inside your goddamn head where nobody understands you, (right?), and that makes you a little more like me than we were originally willing to admit.

Fuck, do I wish you had a knife to put into my heart right now. Fuck, would I ever love to let you try to put me down, for good this time. Fuck, is a word that I use when I feel like you’re maybe not getting the emotional impact of my otherwise ordinary phrases. 

Me, I got love like a loaded gun, and a song on hardcore-repeat. 

Repeat after me:

I just wanna break your heart. 

She comes up to me, comes on to me, drunk as she can be, and giggling. Everything about her reminds me of why she left me, and why I left her. She left me, but I broke up with her. I broke up with her once she’d left the room, and she still blames me for that.

She’s waiting.
By the stairs.
And she’s waiting.
for me to come home.
Doors try to slam, but stay open.
She tries to close the conversation, but the topic remains open to debate. 

She’s a big fat soap-bubble, floating on my breath. 

She loves me until I leave bleed.

She didn’t like the way I spoke to her, so I stopped trying to say nice things, and I said what I really came there to say. I said words that would’ve been unacceptable under any other circumstance. 

I called her nasty things, and she liked it. I told her what I was going to do to her, and she liked it. I threw her up against the wall, and she liked it. I told her she should try to stop me, and she told me to give her more.

Contrary little cunt that she is. She smiles through ever intrusion, and she spits my fluids back in my face. She moves like well-used meat, and she laughs like a criminal behind bars. 

She finishes me off execution-style. She’s the gun at my head, and trigger, both. She says something grim and decisive and I can still hear the sound of her heart beating like a dub-step bass-beat, and her pussy twitching in the dark of her black-and-purple-polka-dotted underwear. 

She looks at me like I’m an atomic blast about to go off.
And then she sets me off.  

Making love to her is like taking a knife in the ribs from a stranger, on a cold, cold night. I don’t know why it makes it worse to be hurt on a cold night, but it certainly just does.

You can see the steam rising up from the blood. You can see the edges of the blood starting to crystallize. You can feel the aching frozen bitterness spreading out from the injury, all those severed nerves crying out in the dark.

Making love to her makes me want to hurt somebody; her other lovers mainly. I can feel their throats in my hands. I can see their feet below my boot-heels. I can hear that satisfying sound their little bones make when they start to break. 

I want to shatter something you love. I want to break some irreplaceable. I want you to understand that I’m not coming home with you. I’m not meeting your parents or spending holidays with you, or any of that shit. I’m just “a face in the crowd”, another anonymous spec of so little.

I kill myself for a living, dulling my senses with experience. 
I slip her into me, right between the ribs.
She’s a perfect little bit of agony, sized to tear me apart.  

I take on new lovers just to have new topics to write about.

I like the colour of her skin, the cut of her hair, I like the uncomfortable way she has of watching me, like she doesn’t like to catch herself looking but likes to look anyway. I like the push and pull of attraction and denial and confusion. 

I just want to bite her lip a little. Get enough of a taste to feel like I’d sampled something of what it was. 

I like her ink, her writing, the glyphs under her skin. I like the potential for… at best, heart-felt intrigue, at worst, simple masturbation. We coax sexual sentiments out of each other, or at least we clearly we want to. (Being an adult seems so stupid sometimes, like tall children with better vocabularies and no restraints.) I like what she might look like, what she might be like, have been like, or what she just wants to be like, with me.

I just want to get up close, and see how she breathes. 

I’ve got miles of self-improvement to go however, before I might sleep. 
And hell, it seems like I just woke up.

I got dressed up in disguise as somebody you’ve never met before. I wouldn’t play your stupid little games, so I did my own thing. I turned up loud and full of an energy that threatened to tear myself apart.

I got lost in memories, distracted by my own lies. I’m not my own biggest fan, but I do know all the secrets for getting around in my little sphere of influence. I watch myself for patterns of change. I watch to see what my weather-fluctuations are going to be like. 

She bites my lips, and I spit blood in her mouth. Then she spends all night leaving bloody little lip-prints up and down my body.

You remember how I used to do it: Fuck no, you don’t. You weren’t around for those days.

I got my sneakers on, my anti-gravity sneakers, and I’ve got their soles set to “random”. 

I’m out the window like a flock of pigeons, reaching for the sky even as I tumble back down to Earth. Down past the third floor, down past the second floor, down past the first floor, and onto the sidewalk.

I drift.

There’s a pocket space about as wide as train-track, and I ride it out into the street. I balance on something imperceptible. I smile as a bit of acid rain kisses my lips.

(I’ve got a lover with acid-rain kisses. She wears toxic, noxious lipsticks, and spits poison off the tip of her tongue)

I’ve got an invisible gun in each hand, and a song you’ve never heard on the edge of my lips. I’ve got a strange sense of hunger roaming through my belly, and a desire to deliver some justice to this strange and unwieldily world. 

“I can’t fake it,” I explain to the birds who scatter from my sides as I scurry up the side of a skyscraper, my feet just a few feet off the surface of the structure; I run on nothing, on the idea of the Earth pushing back instead of drawing down.

“I can’t fake it, so I’ll just have to make it. I can’t lie about it, and I can’t show people shit that’s not actually happening.” 

I’m talking to myself and I’m running towards you. I’ve got a plan and a goal and agenda. I’ve got nothing to hold me back or down, and I’m hungry. Always hungry. 

She lands her aircraft like her ship and the earth are two enormously fat lovers attempting to obtain orgasms in a hammock. She scorches dirty images in the highway with the flames shooting out from the jets as the craft jumps around the roadway, eventually bumping to a complete stop. 

We stumble out of the machine, a couple of popcorn kernels ready to blast off like little rockets. I hang bright and shiny knives off of my belt, and she carries a double-barrelled source of frustration. 

The sunlight is too much for our naked eyes, it’s more like a physical assault than a nice day. I squint out across the strange, unknown territories and spit saliva and blood on a specifically ugly stretch of rock. 

She takes my hand in hers, and gives me a little squeeze. “This is it,” she tells me, and I can tell that she’s been dreaming deeply again, I can tell by the tone of her voice. “This is where we’re gonna kill those cunts, once and for all.”

I need a lover like a lit cigarette pushed up to my lips; which is to say, I need one after the other, all day long, and I need to take them to bed and to wake up with them on the pillow next to me, and I need to carry them through, through everything, through the shower and through the rain, through the darkness of the night and through all the lies I have to tell to make all those other fucking people happy.

Yeah, right. You know me. I’m so hard done by.

I roll around, I roll my eyes around in my head. I try to focus it out, but nothing comes. It’s too far away to zoom in. It’s too slow-motion to be sped up. It’s a relationship that takes its own time, wearing its way down like a mountain collapsing into the sea.

So fucking hard done by. She grabs me by the length of my ego, and kisses me hard, up against the wall. “Up against the wall, motherfuckers.” We’re a series of crimes in motion, all in one place, all up close.