I Know Obsession

An exercise in writing what you know:


I get disappointed when I look over to you and I don’t see your face because it’s covered by your long hair. I breathe in time with you. I can remember the white scars on your arm, trace them into my own with my fingernails. I took your tongue out of your mouth, switched it with my own, and I delight in the way you taste things. I can paint your lips in any color on any surface.

I know I’m in love with you because we both have trypophobia. I know I’m in love with you because I helped you take the bot fly's out of your uncle’s skull. No one else has the same color voice you have.

I could ID your mutilated body when the police couldn’t just by the scent of your blood.
I stirred your ashes into cupcake batter, covered them with bright white frosting and candied cherries and ate up every little bit of you.

I slept with your father and your mother at the same time so it would be like I was with two halves of you.

I went to the state prison and met with Normand Fish- the man who killed you- and licked and tore at his hands with my teeth and tongue just because his hands had been inside you and there might just be a tiny bit of you left there.

Our favorite cake stays slowly rotting on the kitchen table, but I leave it there because it’s your half.

I know I’m in love with you because I keep calling your voicemail just to listen to you say that if I leave my name and number, you’ll get back to me.

Pistol to the Forehead

“Pistol to the forehead. Raspberry Jam,” he drawls lazily. He looks like a demon, beautiful and manipulative and out of my reach.

            There are empty liquor bottles that have their labels replaced with Post-it notes. Vodka now says “Polyjuice potion”, Tequila now says “Luck potion.” There’s a white line on the table and a rolled up dollar bill.

            “I’ll only speak in riddles from now on,” he says to me. There’s blood on his shirt and I don’t think it’s his. I don’t say anything, just start cleaning. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is incredibly relaxed. His lips are elastic, and can stretch like a python’s mouth when he grins.

            “You know you like it when I play games with you,” he keeps talking. I keep cleaning. I’ll get to the coke last in case he wants to take another hit.

            “Pistol to the forehead. Raspberry Jam,” he repeats.

            “You think you’re God,” I say at last. His hair falls in wild waves, layered and feathered to perfect punk rock perfection.

            “I could be,” he says. “As long as you worship me.”

            It’s the closest he’s ever come to a statement of love. I tremble and hate that I do.

            “Whose blood is that?” I ask hesitantly, and sit beside him on the edge of the sofa. When he scrambles up to give me room, he kicks over the tiny little table and knocks over half a bottle of Jack on the floor. The label is replaced with “Love Potion”.

            “Could be yours,” he has a slight lisp because of the tongue ring. He has a giddy elated smile.

            “I’m not cleaning up another body for you,” I tell him. “Not again.”

            “It was just a hooker,” he tells me and rolls his eyes. His causality borders on excited. “Filthy slut thought she could charge more than what we bargained. Pistol to the forehead raspberry jam.” He starts to giggle. I bite my lips and try to stop myself from shaking my head. I make a small movement with my hand- bringing my fingers hesitantly to his hair and then pulling away and resting my hand on my legs. I had to get out of there. It would be so easy to just run away.

            I tell him I’m going to take the bottles out to the recycling. It’d be so easy to just keep going. Find a new boyfriend who actually touches me, tells me he loves me. Find a new apartment where I don’t come home to dead prostitutes.

            As I’m leaving he calls out, “I will always be God because you’ll always be here to worship me, love.”

           

Ah yeah

I am so fucking happy at the moment.