Status: answered.
Question No. 5
who, what, where, how & why
“Who?”
Your brother.
But you can’t know – never. So I’ll ruin your friendship with some guy you hardly know because I can’t ruin your family more than I’ve ruined you. “Jesse.” I’m sorry. Because somehow I think that protecting the image of your brother’s scrotum on my face will save this relationship. Just somehow.
“Where?”
The car, the kitchen, the basement, your mother’s house, your great-aunt’s funeral. It seems you missed out on the kink gene. “The…” tell him you whore, might as well enjoy the reaction. “The sofa.” And now that I think about it, we didn’t fuck there because it was too boring.
“How?”
Spread eagle, upside down and all around, there’s nothing in me he hasn’t fucked up. “What… what do you mean by…” I swallow back the words because it’s in my head that maybe, and just maybe, I can save this once and for all. Even when your arms around me hug me tighter, even when the itch in my heart grows stronger, even when you kiss the crown of my head and.
I can’t breathe.
“How did you fuck him?”
No, no, baby. He fucked me. He fucked us. Because whenever you turned away as I took off my clothes. Whenever you kissed my forehead instead of ravaging my lips. Instead of consulting my needs. I felt so empty and worthless and unattractive and all those you’re beautiful’s died whenever the lights went out. Your brother didn’t need to tell my how sexy I was, he made me feel it.
“What? Do you really-”
“-yes. I do. Because right now I need every reason to hate you.”
I definitely can’t breathe.
Calm down, deep breaths. That’s what all the experts say, at least. And it’s now or never, this fragile moment when it’s either take it or leave it. “You know… I still. I do love y-”
“No.” You push me away and you might as well punch me. It would’ve hurt a hell of a lot less. “No, don’t start with that crap. You fucking cheated on me.”
Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths. I’m on the verge of a hyperventilation attack and I can’t tell the difference between the words cunt and slut anymore. You’re crying too and you can’t pronounce bitch and hurt anymore. I want to hug you and apologize, but I don’t feel like I deserve existing anymore. But even when you slam the door and take with you our fishbowl, I twist my face in your favorite pillow and stop breathing.
You never did ask me why.
Your brother.
But you can’t know – never. So I’ll ruin your friendship with some guy you hardly know because I can’t ruin your family more than I’ve ruined you. “Jesse.” I’m sorry. Because somehow I think that protecting the image of your brother’s scrotum on my face will save this relationship. Just somehow.
“Where?”
The car, the kitchen, the basement, your mother’s house, your great-aunt’s funeral. It seems you missed out on the kink gene. “The…” tell him you whore, might as well enjoy the reaction. “The sofa.” And now that I think about it, we didn’t fuck there because it was too boring.
“How?”
Spread eagle, upside down and all around, there’s nothing in me he hasn’t fucked up. “What… what do you mean by…” I swallow back the words because it’s in my head that maybe, and just maybe, I can save this once and for all. Even when your arms around me hug me tighter, even when the itch in my heart grows stronger, even when you kiss the crown of my head and.
I can’t breathe.
“How did you fuck him?”
No, no, baby. He fucked me. He fucked us. Because whenever you turned away as I took off my clothes. Whenever you kissed my forehead instead of ravaging my lips. Instead of consulting my needs. I felt so empty and worthless and unattractive and all those you’re beautiful’s died whenever the lights went out. Your brother didn’t need to tell my how sexy I was, he made me feel it.
“What? Do you really-”
“-yes. I do. Because right now I need every reason to hate you.”
I definitely can’t breathe.
Calm down, deep breaths. That’s what all the experts say, at least. And it’s now or never, this fragile moment when it’s either take it or leave it. “You know… I still. I do love y-”
“No.” You push me away and you might as well punch me. It would’ve hurt a hell of a lot less. “No, don’t start with that crap. You fucking cheated on me.”
Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths. I’m on the verge of a hyperventilation attack and I can’t tell the difference between the words cunt and slut anymore. You’re crying too and you can’t pronounce bitch and hurt anymore. I want to hug you and apologize, but I don’t feel like I deserve existing anymore. But even when you slam the door and take with you our fishbowl, I twist my face in your favorite pillow and stop breathing.
You never did ask me why.