Random Shit

the plot:

I whisper into my coffee. It's not a bad morning— most mornings have treated me alright as of late. The sun shines through the half-parted curtains; You stand in front of the sink, hands busy in a racket of dishes and soap.

"You're—“

"—Not allowed to die. I know."

Your face is only half visible, bathed in newborn light. It burns a stray batch of baby hairs golden. I always wondered why you kept your hair bunched up like that: pulled into the world’s tightest low hanging ponytail. Traction alopecia fears you, I guess.

You pause. You turn. I expect a frown— I know the slight slant of your mouth better than I know all the state capitals. Which, in all honesty, isn’t saying much. I cheated when we were tested on it. I didn’t mean to cheat is the thing; A classmate saw my distress and took action: an answer sheet was dropped within the walls of my privacy shield. I could have ignored it, but I didn’t. Even if she didn’t know I didn’t want her efforts to go to waste. This is a lot to say that you smile at me. Quiet and gentle. I blink.

Dishes clatter. You wipe your hands on the available towel. Eventually, you pad your way over to the kitchen table and sit down. Again, you smile. I glance over at the window and I’m surprised to find it sunny. But, didn’t I know that already?

“So,” you start. For openers it’s not your best work. You’re trying, though; That should mean something. “How often did you think about dying?”

I trace the rim of my mug. It's cracked. "In your arms," I add, like it will change anything. It's important: to me, at least. The details.

Death still haunts me like a sock lost in a dryer. Sometimes its small: thoughts of crashes and accidents. Sometimes it's large. Grandiose. A bullet to save the day. A sickness that tears through the very fabric of my being. I consider each and every possibility as if it's something I have any choice in.

Your arms used to seem like the only destination. I'd wake up in them. Therefore, I would die in them. Perhaps it's childish but sometimes I'd think about saving your life. You would hold me— kind and shaking. I would say something that belongs in some cheesy action movie. You would laugh. I would join. You would cry. I'd reach up to swipe away a single, perfected tear. And, you would brush a kiss against the edge of my hairline.

I would rest.

"Have you gotten around to watching that poetry reading? The uh, ten minute one— that I sent you awhile ago." The evasion is clear as the stark, Summer brightness. Even if it feels like betrayal, I stick to it.

Finally, you frown.

The expression doesn't stay long; Your eternal, nerdy grin returns like moth to flame. I feel sick, when I feel a smile work its way across my own face. I force a sip of my too dark too cold coffee.

"No..." You say, as if you're consoling a wild, frightened animal. Do you think I'll bite? Is that it? "I'll get around to it, I promise. Would you, um, send it again? It's been a bit."

I sigh. It has been two seasons. I have sent it to you every other week.

And, I will send it again.

Ten minutes pass. You look at me as if there's anything to see. I continue to choke down my coffee. I ignore how it itches at the back of my throat.

Sometimes I wonder if I matter to you. It's an idle wonder, really. Useless. You do the dishes. You smile at me. You let me babble nonsense about dying and arms. Of course I matter. Otherwise... Well. Otherwise.

Once more, I look up at you. With my gaze I trace the edges of your forearms. I think about how it would feel to bleed across your skin.

"I'm gonna go finish up those dishes," you say, almost sudden. I nod— as if I could change your mind. You stand up, push your chair in, and step forward.

Eternity is how long I wait, as you hover by my side. You reach forward. You hesitate. You do not brush a kiss against the edge of my hairline. You walk away.

"I love you," I mumble, as you return your arms to the sink.

A moment passes. I am used to the silence; I let myself indulge.

Dishes begin to clatter. I trace my cracked— not broken— mug once more. I think about taking a sip. I decide against it. You finally respond, voice light and casual. The light still basks your hair in a soft, sunset glow. "I love you too."

YOURE TELLING ME THE SAME CHARACTER WHO HAS SUFFERED AT THE HANDS OF MEN FOR HER ENTIRE LIFE WOULD NOT ONLY TAKE ONE OF HER PREVIOUS ABUSERS AS HER THERAPIST

SHE WOULD ALSO HAVE SEX WITH SAID ABUSER????

WHO WROTE THIS SHIT??????? THE SAME WOMEN WHO SAID THE LINES “For 10 years Men have lied to me and when i come home its all the same”

YOU’RE TELLING ME SHE HAS ANY INTEREST IN MEN AFTER THAT??????

IF SOFIA GIGANTE ISNT A LESBIAN SHE IS PROBABLY AROACE.

AND AFTER THE SHIT SHES BEEN THROUGH????