Tuesday, September 28, 2010


"I wasn't afraid of myself until you were."

"I'm not afraid of you. Just of what you do to yourself."

Scowling, I rub my knuckles along the rough pavement until the skin rubs off completely. The sting of raw, bloody flesh barely touches me so I keep going, keep wrecking my hands. If I can rub them down until they're just stumps at the end of my arms, maybe I'll stop destroying everything I touch. 

"I fell in love once."


"He died."


"Jumped in front of a subway. Away from me. Said I'd killed him already."

A small shard of glass glints from the asphalt at my feet and I pick it up, examining its sharp edges. It's so clear I can see right through it, but I'm afraid to look in case I catch a glimpse of my own reflection by accident. Monsters have always scared me. The glass fits perfectly between my fingers, draws perfect lines into my skin, and opens up the seams of this costume I've been dying under. Only no blood falls out, just ash. 

"I'm a murderer."


"Everyone who gets close to me shrivels up inside."

"That's not death."

"They're dehydrated memories and then they crumble. Soon after, the body gives up too."

You reach over to console me, to put your hand on my shoulder in an empathetic gesture, but you fall right through me and your skin smacks loudly against the pavement. I was right when I told you two parts of the same person can't exist outside of each other. Maybe we should stitch ourselves back together again. 

Oh wait.

You're already running away. 

Never mind. Go be free. 

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