Disclaimer: Another Christmas has passed and I'm still not the proud owner of Charlie. Woe is me.
A/N: Seeing as how this is another work inspired by Richard Siken, I think it's safe to say that I really, really need to stay away from the poetry. I don't know what it is. I read a poem and suddenly I have tons of ideas. Gah. Anyway, as always, I hope you all enjoy this. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
His eyes are brown, you notice. Not the right shade, but brown none the less.
You could drown in those eyes, you think.
And so you do.
/
Charlie is dangerous and therein lays the appeal.
He's dangerous, deadly, like a knife, like a gun, like a shard of shattered glass, like a pill, bitter on the tip of your tongue, like a speeding car, like a bullet to the brain.
You're not supposed to want him but you do. You want him because he wants you, because wanting is all he knows how to do.
With him there'll be no promises, no relationship, no feelings, no risk of falling, no risk at all.
He could break your heart, you think. He could snap it like plastic, rip it like paper, shatter it like glass.
But you're not going to let him do that.
He can't.
It's already broken.
/
You're in a car, crowded together in the backseat.
His lips are pressed against the hollow of your throat, hot and wet against your skin, and his hand is curved around the bone of your ankle, his hair tangled between your fingers.
Outside, it's cold. It's snowing.
Inside, you're warm. You're comfortable.
You don't feel the cold, the harsh, biting sting of the wind. You don't feel anything at all.
Your breath mingles with his and fogs up the windows; clouding your vision, clouding your judgment, making you forget that you're tired, making you think this is really what you want.
You know it isn't but it's easy to pretend.
It's easy to pretend because his eyes are brown, because he's there and he wants you, because he's beautiful.
For a moment, he could almost be someone else.
/
When he looks at you, you don't see Charlie.
You see his eyes.
Brown, like dried leaves, like mud, like coffee, like chocolate, like trees.
Brown like Neil's.
When he looks at you, you don't see Charlie. You see Neil.
You could drown in those eyes, you think.
And you have.
/
Charlie heals quickly, you notice.
He comes out on the other side tougher than he was before, harder, rougher, only slightly worse for wear.
You're here and he's somewhere else, another place entirely, and you're stuck, stuck in the past, in what was, in what might have been.
Your scars won't heal, your skin won't thicken.
You can't forget. You can't move on.
You're growing tired, restless, weary, and he's running out of lullabies, of ways to sooth you.
You're falling apart and he can no longer hold you together.
/
History repeats itself is what you've been told.
Sometimes, you think you want it to. Sometimes you want to want him, want to fall in love with him, want him to heal you, to stitch you up, to make you forget.
But it doesn't work that way.
He can try and you can try but he won't take his place because you can't let him.
/
You fuck in the backseat or at a hotel, never at his house, never at yours, never at school.
It goes on for weeks, and then months, and then years.
It never changes. It's always the same.
You're at a standstill, a fork in the road, and neither one of you know which direction to turn to.
You never move forward, you never move back.
/
You begin to fight, all the time, over everything, over nothing, throwing punches, hissing words.
You have blood on your knuckles, a bruise on your cheek.
He knocks you down, you bite your tongue, you taste the blood, taste the grass.
You stand on shaky legs and you take a swing, hit him square in the jaw.
That's when it ends.
You've fallen apart so it falls apart. You no longer have the energy to try to hold it together.
You take a seat on the curb, side by side, and you say, Charlie, you say, I'm sorry.
He spits, wipes the blood from his mouth, and he says, Me too.
/
Charlie was dangerous, deadly, like a knife, like a gun, like a shard of shattered glass, like a pill, bitter on the tip of your tongue, like a speeding car, like a bullet to the brain.
You shouldn't have wanted him but you did.
He could have broken your heart, he could have killed you.
You just couldn't get him to.
.