Cry Me a River and Drown In It, Sweetheart

The thing about us is that we aren’t as cool as we like to pretend and you’d think with all this practice we’d probably be some sort of pros by now, but not really, we're not that good at pretending at all. We don’t even know our lines and improvising is all we got but we have this little tendency to fuck that up sometimes, and by sometimes I mean most times, and by that I mean I’m pretty sure we all know we’re not cool even a little bit. I don’t even know what cool means. I don’t think any of us do. Our words are slurred and jumbled and misplaced like sloppy kisses at midnight and our eyes have lost that curious button sort of shine to them you find in most other kids. We might not be lots of things but not like most other kids, well, that’d be us I think.

We pretend so much you’d think that we could be registered actors or something- we sure know how to play up the dramatics if we’re giving out due credit. The only problem is that we’re not exactly sure what genre our lives are quite yet so we’re stumbling through the motions most times wondering hey wait, how the hell did we even end up here? No kidding, I don’t think Genevieve knows her own name half the time.

We always need someone’s eyes to make it all worthwhile. We always need someone watching.

The thing about love is that it’s never with the right person or the right time or the right kind and we bastardize the fuck out of it until the mere thought of it would make you running towards the toilet in seconds. None of us wanted this shitty little love thing that we got slapped into our flushed cheeks. None of us asked for this bullshit. We made love ugly. We made love disgusting. We made love into ourselves.

Genie’s butterfly lips are flaking off, like dried icing on a pale pink worm curled to form that kissy-kissy face she loves to make. Genie, she says, “You know I’m sorry.” With her pouty mouth and those counterfeit tears that are pooling in her eyes again, she’s saying, “Babe, you know I love you.”

I don’t know a lot but I know that dear fucking God, I love Genie. And dear fucking God, does she ever bleed me dry.

Her dyed blonde hair is pushed behind those ears that all the other kids always made fun of because they were always so big, and she’s searching my face for some sort of anything, some sort of rejection or some sort of forgiveness but all I think she’s gonna find is some sort of nothing, because lately that’s all I’ve managed to manifest into.

It’s all falling through my fingers again. Cry me a fucking river.

“You sure seem to love Brent’s cock too, if we’re being honest here,” I say and flex my jaw. Genie’s sniffling all innocent-like again and her mascara’s crawling down those rosacea red cheeks in the form of salty wet rivers. Genie’s always had a flair for dramatics. I almost want to laugh.

Her fingers are trembling as they reach out to touch me, to touch anything, her skin searching for some sort of comfort. My scalp prickles. Deep breath. We’ll just wait out the evening again. Again and again and again. Her fingertips trace my jaw line.

“You know that I love you,” she’s saying again, tears choking at those pretty little well-rehearsed words. “I’ll always love you. You’re my everything, Trevor. You’re my moon and my stars and my heart. You know I can’t live without you.”

I don’t fucking know anything.

Bathed in the murky yellow light from the lamp, shadows playing upon that pale face, Genie’s chapped lips are closing in on mine again. “C’mon,” she murmurs. “Forgive me?”

I can taste the salt in her tears.

As her touch wanders the flesh of my neck and her lips brush against mine, I wonder if maybe Romeo had the right idea taking the easy way out.

“Just let me think,” I say, pushing at her collarbones, her presence weighing on my time and my life and my sanity.

The bed creaks under her weight as she sits back down across from me, big doe eyes bloodshot and staring at me all bambi-like. I almost want to laugh again. We’re all so lost these days that I’m not exactly sure where we stumbled off that stupid path that we can’t find our way back to.

I wouldn’t call this a love story and I wouldn’t call this a romance. A tragic comedy doesn’t make much sense but it’s all that my feeble mind can produce. We’re all laughing at how fucking disastrous we are. Genevieve, she’s laughing. I’m laughing. Brent’s laughing. Welcome to the lives of the young and the depressed and the pathetic.

The evening is ticking away, expiring with each second, and Genevieve she’s staring me down again. Waiting for the answers that I’ll pretend to find.

And dear fucking God, this mess is something I don’t think we’ll ever be able to clean up.