We sat and lounged all day. It was a dark afternoon, it was raining but the day felt like it was beset with burning coals, raining on the aluminum roof. It was a lazy day but the smoke kept coming. The long streaks of immeasurable physical symbols of after sex rituals.
She gon' do you so good that other tenants will want to have a smoke after she's done with you.
Motherfucking lines that are so fucking cheesy that you can't help but to smile tightly. Then release the air trapped in your nose to complete a scoffing effect. Wiseguy motherfuckers.
She lay motionless in the bed. It was a mess. Really. It almost feels like an understatement to me. Her clothes line the floor in a familiar way. More like a trail of islands in a vast surrounding of sea and waves. The sheets were the ones who took the beating, they caught the brunt. They are an old gift from a failed lover and I made sure it became the witness of the many things I swore I'd do to get back at her. It was a canvass for me. I was the brush and the this girl was one of my palettes. It was redemption in the most physical way possible. Violence is too easy, though I can't say for sure that what just happened this morning could not be classified into that area. It was a haze of controlled anger.
The sooner I let go of that feeling, the faster it burnt. White knuckles are a common thing these days. No, it is a necessity. The way that each tendon tightens into a burning white sensation that translates to a euphoric but abrasive state is something I pride myself with. I wear it like a crown, they, on the other hand, are not aware of this laud they give me.
It's nothing personal. Though I feel that it is some kind of vindication for me. This is some narcissistic shit but who else can talk to me about me but me? They are too busy making schedules, keeping up with meetings, memorizing the points on their reports. Let's get busy.
We were okay, not happy, just okay. She hates bearing all the decorations of pre-made love I get her as gifts. She didn't want gifts. She just wanted me. And I wanted her. It is in that simple mechanism of a relationship I should have remained. But fuck me, I wanted to make things detailed with my OCD and self-loathing. There should have been none. I am angry and that makes it worse. Rambling was a way that I did to open up a dialogue that should've happened. I dwell on the "what could haves" and the "what ifs." They are piling up like the dirty laundry. It engulfed the hamper of my self-loathing.
She loved lazy afternoons like this one. I hate myself for remembering it. I'm just wondering, does she think about me as much as I still do about her? I fucking hate her to the point that this resurrected vow for vengeance is channeled through things other than her just to show her I don't care. But it kinda gets old. Drugs and relapses are always in business. Actually, they are a growing partnership. You'll find branches everywhere. Look at the time, I have another appointment by 5. I better wake her up.