either call me or zip me, your choice
It’s his voice on the other end of the line.
You wonder why a god needs to use a telephone.
You asked him about who he was and he told you and you didn’t like his answer. You know you have no reason to be upset but you can’t help that even the thought of it infuriates you, because you do have a right, goddamn it, you have a right to not let this boy make you feel the way he makes you feel.
“At least let me come back for my banjo.”
You wonder why a god has to ask for anything.
“I will come back for it if I have to.”
A part of you wants him to. A part of you wants to believe that he is the cosmic deity he claims to be and a part of you wants to see him walk through walls and a part of you hopes to find him in your lone, unoccupied armchair when you come home, one willowy leg crossed over the other. You will stand there and order him to leave with fists balled tight when a part of you just wants to tangle your fingers in his ruby red hair and press your ear to his chest while he sings you all the songs you listen to when you sit hunched over the papers and the tables that are killing you slowly, starving you, driving you out of your home.
“I’m trying not to freak you out.”
How did he get this number?
"And I'm not lying to you."
A part of you wishes he was.
"But you invoked me. You're looking for logic where there isn't any. Suspend your disbelief. In your heart I know you want to. I see more than you think I do. More than you see about yourself."
"You can fight me if you want but you should know I won't stop."
You hate the way the phone distorts his voice. You don't want to think about not hearing it in person ever again. No matter what he is.