Keep the Faith
Robot.
His mechanical smile was illumined by the light, a half moon of impeccably clean teeth blinding me with their perfection. Coldly calculating; his metallic smile and aluminum lips freezing mine in a wintry embrace, and I wondered how it was that we ended up like that. I found myself divagating from one memory to another, trying to pinpoint the exact moment in which we'd ended up in the abyss between sanity and dementedness; reality and a mirror that reflected an eternal uncertainty.
His hands, glaciers that had caused an unending amount of shipwrecks, positioned themselves in my hips, tattooing their fingerprints in my skin. His bones were the fossils of a human being, buried several years ago by the clawing hands of infamy; buried inside an armor, like the knights that melted within theirs so many centuries ago, waxy organs diluted with the blood that had once kept them functioning.
I could feel his body in autopilot as his coppery tongue left a trail of hot saliva in my slightly parted lips, and I responded with the same amount of icy emotion. His steel arms pressed themselves tightly around my waist, but they only numbed me even more. I was a step from falling, and he was already there, waiting to lead me into that ocean of perfect idiocy, never to come back to the surface again. It was in that moment that I could sense his smirk, like the one he proudly showed off on-stage, against my lips. It was in that moment that the image of a thousand screaming teenagers flashed before my eyes, their deafening claims of adoration resting upon the ears of my husband. It was in that moment that I could see his hips tantalizingly moving in unison to the drumbeats, and I pushed him away.
“What's wrong, babe?” It was as if his words had been preprogrammed, each syllable prerecorded by different voices with a perfectly imitated Jersey accent. His machinery of perfectly designed muscles pushed his lips into a curve, and then he was fucking pouting. I could feel his real smile burning behind my eyelids; I love you; contrasting the hypocrite one that now adorned his pallid face. I turned to walk away, but the echo of his footsteps followed me blindly into our shared hotel room.
He sat on the neatly made bed, and I noticed for the first time in years how his eyes were pooling in salty tears. He kept asking me what he'd done wrong in that stupid voice that didn't belong to him, why he was guilty with the same repetitive sentences. All that occupied my mind at that moment, though, was the way his brain cells were being manipulated by the puppeteers that called themselves fans. Their needy, clingy eyes, watching him as if he was a fucking marionette whose strings they could pull to their own accord. Gerard the clown, with his hand down his pants and his moans satisfying the horny thoughts inside their immature skulls. Gerard the robot, with his incessant antics and automatic answers cascading from his tongue as if they were a waterfall of lies and unreal facts.
“I'm glad his hair's black again.”
“Their shows were better when he was drunk.”
“Oh my God, can you sign my breasts?!”
What's wrong what's wrong what's wrong what's fucking wrong?
“You,” I screamed whispered exclaimed murmured. And maybe it was the truth, because he was the one who allowed everyone to drag him into it all. He was shaking pathetically, like an abandoned child, because he was aware that he'd permitted everyone to maneuver him into thinking his intoxicated past had been much more exciting than the life he'd been living. He was Parkinson's disease, with his trembling muscles and heaving shoulder-blades, and I knew he was feeling my hatred. It was noticeable in the way he fell to the floor, knees suffering under his weight. He was being devoured by the loathing that had settled itself inside of me when I first saw a glass bottle in his hands, when I first saw his dilated pupils in a quest of finding mine amidst the night.
His corroding tears left smudged eyeliner around his eyes and down his cheeks, numb stare still puncturing my ribcage until I felt the need to vomit. Bile ignited in my throat, fueled by the acidic liquids in my stomach that worked like gasoline. The fire was constricting my throat with the ashes of my disfigured, inner self. He just kept staring at me, perforating my cranium repeatedly with his hazel irises and their fake promises of undying love that had faded a long time ago. There was no need to pretend.
A lonely sunray filtered through the curtain, light resting on his gray face. I could feel a shot of electricity petrifying my bones as I saw his decayed skin peeling off of him, exposing those bones that had once belonged to a human being. My arteries were electrodes as the shocking view electrified me, and I could see his oxidized, eyeless sockets still fixated in my direction. I suddenly didn't feel the need to throw up anymore.
Had it been so wrong? Weren't humans allowed to fall? Because maybe, just maybe, he wasn't a robot after all. And maybe, just maybe, he needed to be saved before he became the savior.
His hands, glaciers that had caused an unending amount of shipwrecks, positioned themselves in my hips, tattooing their fingerprints in my skin. His bones were the fossils of a human being, buried several years ago by the clawing hands of infamy; buried inside an armor, like the knights that melted within theirs so many centuries ago, waxy organs diluted with the blood that had once kept them functioning.
I could feel his body in autopilot as his coppery tongue left a trail of hot saliva in my slightly parted lips, and I responded with the same amount of icy emotion. His steel arms pressed themselves tightly around my waist, but they only numbed me even more. I was a step from falling, and he was already there, waiting to lead me into that ocean of perfect idiocy, never to come back to the surface again. It was in that moment that I could sense his smirk, like the one he proudly showed off on-stage, against my lips. It was in that moment that the image of a thousand screaming teenagers flashed before my eyes, their deafening claims of adoration resting upon the ears of my husband. It was in that moment that I could see his hips tantalizingly moving in unison to the drumbeats, and I pushed him away.
“What's wrong, babe?” It was as if his words had been preprogrammed, each syllable prerecorded by different voices with a perfectly imitated Jersey accent. His machinery of perfectly designed muscles pushed his lips into a curve, and then he was fucking pouting. I could feel his real smile burning behind my eyelids; I love you; contrasting the hypocrite one that now adorned his pallid face. I turned to walk away, but the echo of his footsteps followed me blindly into our shared hotel room.
He sat on the neatly made bed, and I noticed for the first time in years how his eyes were pooling in salty tears. He kept asking me what he'd done wrong in that stupid voice that didn't belong to him, why he was guilty with the same repetitive sentences. All that occupied my mind at that moment, though, was the way his brain cells were being manipulated by the puppeteers that called themselves fans. Their needy, clingy eyes, watching him as if he was a fucking marionette whose strings they could pull to their own accord. Gerard the clown, with his hand down his pants and his moans satisfying the horny thoughts inside their immature skulls. Gerard the robot, with his incessant antics and automatic answers cascading from his tongue as if they were a waterfall of lies and unreal facts.
“I'm glad his hair's black again.”
“Their shows were better when he was drunk.”
“Oh my God, can you sign my breasts?!”
What's wrong what's wrong what's wrong what's fucking wrong?
“You,” I screamed whispered exclaimed murmured. And maybe it was the truth, because he was the one who allowed everyone to drag him into it all. He was shaking pathetically, like an abandoned child, because he was aware that he'd permitted everyone to maneuver him into thinking his intoxicated past had been much more exciting than the life he'd been living. He was Parkinson's disease, with his trembling muscles and heaving shoulder-blades, and I knew he was feeling my hatred. It was noticeable in the way he fell to the floor, knees suffering under his weight. He was being devoured by the loathing that had settled itself inside of me when I first saw a glass bottle in his hands, when I first saw his dilated pupils in a quest of finding mine amidst the night.
His corroding tears left smudged eyeliner around his eyes and down his cheeks, numb stare still puncturing my ribcage until I felt the need to vomit. Bile ignited in my throat, fueled by the acidic liquids in my stomach that worked like gasoline. The fire was constricting my throat with the ashes of my disfigured, inner self. He just kept staring at me, perforating my cranium repeatedly with his hazel irises and their fake promises of undying love that had faded a long time ago. There was no need to pretend.
A lonely sunray filtered through the curtain, light resting on his gray face. I could feel a shot of electricity petrifying my bones as I saw his decayed skin peeling off of him, exposing those bones that had once belonged to a human being. My arteries were electrodes as the shocking view electrified me, and I could see his oxidized, eyeless sockets still fixated in my direction. I suddenly didn't feel the need to throw up anymore.
Had it been so wrong? Weren't humans allowed to fall? Because maybe, just maybe, he wasn't a robot after all. And maybe, just maybe, he needed to be saved before he became the savior.