Whiskey, Wine, Jazz Diaries. I am a mixed drink. And a fire catching off of the table stacked with white candles at the cathedral.
One touch that lingers just a moment too long, a smile or a gaze that follow a second later than I usually take, and he's grinning at me with half closed eyes calling me affectionate. Affectionate. And he takes an arm up around my waist and asks me what is it. There's a force in the touch or in the word of a man looking at you with glittery eyes and saying "What is it?" that disgusts me like nothing else. If there were anyone else in the world that did that sort of thing or anything like it I would put them on the floor and dig my heel into one of their eyes, so fucking quickly, I can't tell you. So why does it feel like some burning electric pulse when he does it? When he touches me there's an awful warmth attached. It'll put this hot liquid in my chest and my gut, like I'm melting from the inside out, and that does and will kill me. He will kill me. If anything will, it will be him. If you can be a god with a collar around your neck, a tie with someone else's name embroidered neatly on the inside layer so that their brand is always on the back of your oh so wringable neck, it will be him.
Only the purest sticky streak of stupidity could make me stumble around on my words. And I'm afraid I am very, very stupid sometimes. Makes me so god damn angry but that really comes in afterward, not during. During, my stomach is hot blood soup. Sour. Tart. A bottle of tabasco sloshing around inside of a glass lantern. The lamppost is on fire.
Hate is love, isn't it. It is when you can't stand to love and you do it anyway.
