They call me an idiot for coming back to you over and over again. I see the way Amy's face drops when she finds out that I've fallen back into your arms, into your bed, into your psychotic life for yet another night. I let my gaze travel across her face and take in her disappointed looks and I listen to her lectures and I believe them.
Every time that I tell her that I won't run back to you again, I manage to convince myself along with her and I believe it with all my heart, and in those moments I feel strong, as if I could the world, as if I could take on you. This gives me the power to walk into work with my head held high. That is, of course, until I see your face and all my strength diminishes. It sound's cliché but I can only describe it as something snapping and I feel weak once again.
You look at me with those deep blue eyes which would appear uncaring to an onlooker, but over the months I've learned to interpret them. Only I see the emotion swimming in them, deeper than anyone could ever begin to imagine. I see every fucked-up, conflicting feeling. I see the things that you'd never say out loud. I see that you love me, that you hate me, that you want me, that you fear me. I see how much you're hurting and when I see it, it's like every inch of my being is aching for you. I want to run over to you and hold you, leave butterfly kisses across your face and whisper meaningless things like everything with be alright in the end. Most of all I want to tell you that I love you, but I fight the urge because there are people here and they'll see us and when it comes down to it I know that you just as weak as I am, even if it doesn't show.
Instead I carry on serving customers, wiping down counters and waiting for you, because you always have been the one to call the shots and no doubt you will be until this fucked up situation draws to a close.
Finally, the club empty's and I turn to see you strolling over to me. Like I said, it's always you who calls the shots. I close my eyes and wait for the softness of your lips or the sharpness of your fist. The two opposites seem to have merged into one feeling now. Both are filled with the same conflicting meaning. They're both your way of showing me how you feel about me.
When after a few moments I feel your lips press against my own I accept it and return it because I am weak and I know that when we are alone in your bed I develop some sense of strength knowing that I can make you fall apart.
We're like two pieces of a dysfunctional jigsaw, you and me. In a strange way, we fit. Like opposite ends of magnets we are drawn to each other, and as this thing between us grows stronger it become increasingly difficult for us to pull apart. I know that you feel it too.
I hear you mutter something along the lines of Cheryl being out tonight. I nod before following you out of the club, returning to the beginning of the endless cycle, preparing for the disappointed looks off Amy when I return home in the morning.