Clammy Hands and Awkward Moments

I've stood in your doorway on restless nights too many times to count. Instead I count other things: your eyelashes, the strands of hair in your face, how many breaths you take. I stand there, sometimes with a cigarette, sometimes with a drink, sometimes with my fingers twisting around themselves. But I stand there, never leaning against your doorframe, just standing and staring at you sleeping. You, who could sleep through the Apocolypse.

I never slept well, but it just kept getting worse and worse. When you kissed me in June I felt like insomnia was a drug dripping through my veins. Sometimes you wake up, needing a glass of water or just sitting up and staring around for a moment before falling back against the mattress. I move down the hallway when you do that, finish whatever drink or cigarette I'm working on, and go back to my own room. Then I lay there, trying to sleep.

I never can. I stare at the ceiling, try not to think about you. Try not to think about what you look like at that moment, what you might be dreaming about now. Trying like hell not to think about that vodka laced kiss five months ago. Hot tears of shame would course down my face as my hands slipped below the sheets. I'd try so hard not to let it come to this, not to think about you and cry. Silent tears, nothing that would ever bring you to my room. Sometimes I think the only thing that wakes you up at night is me.

What you would say if you saw me like this, sobbing and making my wrist ache over you. And then afterward, I change my clothes and sit with my back against the wall, eyes closed, refusing to look at the sheets on my bed. I'll change them in the morning, shower for hours. Make you worry about me. Between your worrying and my worrying it's a wonder we're both not insane. You'll catch my hand and try and get me to talk to you, I'll yank it away. I won't let my grotesque sins taint you.

What makes it worse is that look on your face, as if you think you've done something wrong. You want to make it better, you always want to make it better, like you're my fucking bandaid. You'd beg me to tell you what was wrong, cry when I pushed away from you and grabbed my car keys, disappearing through that door. You'd be there when I got back, pretending nothing was wrong. You'd be in your room or taking a shower or watching TV. You'd smile at me and pretend I didn't smell like smoke and sex and beer.

Our fucking waltz. Twirling around the dance floor, looking pretty, and always ending up back where we started. Someone leads, someone follows, and nothing ever happens. Just two people clumsily tumbling across a slick dance floor, clammy hands and awkward movements. One looks at the other to catch their eyes and they both turn away, terrified of what they might see. Our beautiful waltz, our stupid charade.

And then, without warning and scaring the hell out of me, you changed the music. You grabbed me and pinned me against the wall, your face inches from mine. I closed my eyes, terrified. You weren't supposed to be this close to me, this was a sin, this was what I tried so hard to avoid. This was a black and white memory of June. And you shook me, my eyes flying open. Something was wrong with me, you decided aloud. I knew that already, but I forced my lips to stay closed.

"You're sick."

Just go away, just go away. You don't know how sick I am. You can't possibly understand. You don't know what your breath on my face is doing to me at this very moment, how your voice is killing me.

"What's wrong with you?"

Everything! Why can't you see that? Why can't you just see that and leave me alone? I'm not worth it. Please, just go. Just leave me here to rot. Can't you give me that much?

"Talk to me!"

"I can't! It's sick and it's wrong and you'll hate me if I tell you. Can't you just leave me alone? You're just making it harder. I can't stop thinking about it. Why the fuck did you have to kiss me? If you didn't do that, if you weren't so fucking beautiful and perfect . . . You don't understand. It's my sin, so just leave it alone."

I had no idea I'd said those words aloud until I heard the last one slip from my mouth. And then I lost it. I struggled so hard against your grip, my eyes closed, screams forcing their way past my lips. You kept repeating my name over and over and I felt dirtier everytime you said it, as if you acknowledging the fact that I existed meant I needed to die even more.

"You liked that kiss?"

Stop it.

"Did you like that kiss?"

Please stop. Don't do this.

"Did you like it when I kissed you?"

"YES!"

And then I was sobbing and you put your arms around me, cradling me as if I were still a child. You stroked my hair and rocked me. Then, you slipped a cool hand under my chin and made me look at you.

"Mikey . . ."

Please, please don't say you hate me. Hit me, kill me, but just don't say you hate me.

". . . I liked it, too."

And then you pressed your lips against mine, biting at my bottom lip until I opened my mouth to you. Your tongue slipped inside of me and I gripped your shoulders as if afraid I might not be able to stand. My fingers threaded through your black hair. I felt your lips around my tongue and squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to make any sound as I felt you sucking on me.

"Mikey . . ."

Don't say my name. Don't take it back. Just keep doing this. Don't make me talk about it. Please, please, don't talk about it.

". . . do you want me to make love to you?"

God, don't make it sound like poetry. That makes it seem even more sinful.

"Mikey?"

"Gerard, just shut up and fuck me."

I've never been hit so hard in my life.