You stop to think.
You think maybe you're a little too drunk. The world is shaky, at best.
What you thought could salvage the remnants of your now soulless self cannot.
Three small words linger on your tongue, one layer beneath the tequila and one breath away from the taste of rejection.
And one other word burns a stronger shot.
She is the worst addiction.
The girl. The one. She is. Is she? Yeah, she is, you decide. So this is as good as it gets, you think. But then, maybe she's out of your league anyway.
Maybe?
You laugh at the premise of your own unwitting joke. When exactly you discovered this sense of humor is beyond you.
She doesn't reciprocate.
Or does she?
This is relentless, your battle with your cynicism. You don't know what you're theorizing exactly because she was blunt enough. No remorse, no sympathy, just a decision that killed you.
And you wonder when you became so tragically poetic--or is that pathetic? Because you're undeniably bad at it.
But there was an uncertainty. A glimpse of consideration in her gaze, as if she might have--
--She wouldn't.
Rationality is her prized trait. And she'd be damned if anything, save for her own stubborn nature interfered with that.
So she doesn't, you conclude hazily. Love you, that is.
Of course.
Obviously enough.
Except...no.
The word that says it all.
And swallowing down the truth leaves an aftertaste that's too bitter for your liking. So you compromise and take the vodka instead.
It's clear. And there's truth in that bareness, naked and vulnerable, just as you are. Vodka resonates with your unsound mind.
You slide off the barstool, not because you're tired but because your pockets are empty and nobody seems to give a damn about Salinger here.
A book for a shot. They don't want it.
Uncultured fuckers.
Stumbling out into the dark, the night clouds hang above you with malicious intent.
You walk forward. You fall back a little.
You stop.
There she is. Unless she's not. And if she's not, then she's coming towards you faster than you can blink.
That's impressive.
"Jess!" she hisses, and you wince. Loud noises.
She touches you, and you realize she's really there. A palpable, burning touch against your already scalding skin.
You feel a little sick.
"What are you doing here?" you mumble, blinking twice as hard to focus.
"I changed my mind."
"Huh?" The first time that noise has ever been emitted in the form of a question.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
You've forgotten the question, you almost say. Lousy liar.
"No."
"What?"
She kisses you, briefly and you can feel her lips, cold and clumsy slide across yours. You kiss back, because you're still not a complete idiot.
And then you're being pushed back, pushed down, onto gravel that cuts into your palms. She covers her mouth and her eyes widen before she runs away.
Funny. That was always your job.
"No," you repeat her last word.
The word that says it all.
You think maybe you're a little too drunk. The world is shaky, at best.
What you thought could salvage the remnants of your now soulless self cannot.
Three small words linger on your tongue, one layer beneath the tequila and one breath away from the taste of rejection.
And one other word burns a stronger shot.
She is the worst addiction.
The girl. The one. She is. Is she? Yeah, she is, you decide. So this is as good as it gets, you think. But then, maybe she's out of your league anyway.
Maybe?
You laugh at the premise of your own unwitting joke. When exactly you discovered this sense of humor is beyond you.
She doesn't reciprocate.
Or does she?
This is relentless, your battle with your cynicism. You don't know what you're theorizing exactly because she was blunt enough. No remorse, no sympathy, just a decision that killed you.
And you wonder when you became so tragically poetic--or is that pathetic? Because you're undeniably bad at it.
But there was an uncertainty. A glimpse of consideration in her gaze, as if she might have--
--She wouldn't.
Rationality is her prized trait. And she'd be damned if anything, save for her own stubborn nature interfered with that.
So she doesn't, you conclude hazily. Love you, that is.
Of course.
Obviously enough.
Except...no.
The word that says it all.
And swallowing down the truth leaves an aftertaste that's too bitter for your liking. So you compromise and take the vodka instead.
It's clear. And there's truth in that bareness, naked and vulnerable, just as you are. Vodka resonates with your unsound mind.
You slide off the barstool, not because you're tired but because your pockets are empty and nobody seems to give a damn about Salinger here.
A book for a shot. They don't want it.
Uncultured fuckers.
Stumbling out into the dark, the night clouds hang above you with malicious intent.
You walk forward. You fall back a little.
You stop.
There she is. Unless she's not. And if she's not, then she's coming towards you faster than you can blink.
That's impressive.
"Jess!" she hisses, and you wince. Loud noises.
She touches you, and you realize she's really there. A palpable, burning touch against your already scalding skin.
You feel a little sick.
"What are you doing here?" you mumble, blinking twice as hard to focus.
"I changed my mind."
"Huh?" The first time that noise has ever been emitted in the form of a question.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
You've forgotten the question, you almost say. Lousy liar.
"No."
"What?"
She kisses you, briefly and you can feel her lips, cold and clumsy slide across yours. You kiss back, because you're still not a complete idiot.
And then you're being pushed back, pushed down, onto gravel that cuts into your palms. She covers her mouth and her eyes widen before she runs away.
Funny. That was always your job.
"No," you repeat her last word.
The word that says it all.