compos_dementis: Picture of anime Mello with gothic M (Default)
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It's nothing too important, I try to tell myself. It's just the way she is, the way she plays, whether it be weak and distant over the phone or her laughter in my ear as we wait for the bell to ring at school.

Her hands clutch at her notebooks, and my hands grip mine possessively to my chest. Our stories are something shared, something we can trade off with one another as easily as trading off the looks of disappointment on our faces. Because this isn't what either of us expected, this slow longing that pulls at our chests. I know she can feel it too, every time our hands brush and each time we share an awkward laugh.

We can share fiction. We can put all of our fears and desires into characters that we think are better than us... or at least I do. Characters determined to become clean, women fighting for respect and men trying to scrub away the sins that eat away at them. People that want to be better, smarter, people that desire to be looked at as someone worth seeing.

Am I worth seeing, anymore? I used to be, as our lazy touches became a little more heated, as her mouth pulled into that sweet smile. But now, our hands avoid one another's. We touch only when we must, only as we say goodbye before we part ways.

This isn't what I wanted. This isn't what I need.

And it's nothing too important. It's just her, words flying at me and hitting my heart like daggers even though deep down, I know it's a joke. I think it's a joke.

"You're just a little slow," she likes to tell me, with a small laugh. And I smile weakly back, thinking that next time I'll do better, next time I won't deserve having been called something less than what I am. I know I'm not worth it, I realize that I can never be enough for her requirements.

I can't reach her standards of what I should be; as knowing as she is, as quiet as she wants me to be. She does want me to just be silent, sometimes, to not fling jokes right back at her... to just take the faux-insults she gives me with a smile and not say anything in return.

She doesn't mean it. She loves me, or at least she says she does. I'm not sure what to believe anymore, to be honest. But I'm perfectly content to remain this miserably unhappy, as long as it makes her smile.

I don't mind unhappiness. I've received it so many times before, concealing the bitterness with smiles and laughter and stories and chocolate. I let my close circle of friends know that I'm truly happy with the way things are, that nothing could possibly be wrong -- can't they hear the way I laugh?

But inside...

Inside, I'm decaying. I'm flaking away under the harsh pressure she gives me.

I'm... dying, as much as it hurts to think about.

And I do it for her smile.

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compos_dementis: Picture of anime Mello with gothic M (Default)
compos_dementis

May 2008

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