Demolition, Decomposition

I hope you'll want to keep moulding me into a faux model of her. After all, she's already beautiful, she's already everything to you, and she's already left you. I plague myself with foolish thoughts and haunt myself with lust-powered desires that you'll someday see the spark in my eyes, lick off my lips the taste of strawberry lipgloss, and hear how I miss a "lub" when a ventricular systole doesn't close the bicuspid and tricuspid valves in my heart, when you place your ear on my left breast.

You'll see beneath all the street fashion I wear, you'll see beneath breasts and body, and finally you'll see me (I hope).

You won't see that divinity you've been pining for. I would grow pine trees for you a million times only if it could enchant you with a bit of cheap alcohol within my budget and an ardour for me over a few weeks and some seconds to spare. This contraption of a brain is getting difficult to handle and I'm always left cleaning up the shattered shards of my sanity and the maroon pools of blood you clumsily leave behind.

…I don't know why don't you take a truckload of iron pills for your anaemia before you actually start on your weekly routine.

Sometimes, I wish you would at least prepare some clean cloth and the first-aid kit before I walk into the room only to find you slumped in a corner, your headphones blasting obnoxious loud music to distract me while I clean up your mess. I waste many of my good linen sheets, cashmere jackets and t-shirts just sealing your gashes up, hiding them from the outside world just like how I'm hidden from you. The supply of antiseptic and cotton buds is declining rapidly, I'm running out of places to hide sharp objects and also to hide myself (the wardrobe is getting too small) when I hear you moan out loud cause everytime you moan, it breaks my heart to hear the name "Namine" instead of "Kairi" and my poor brain is thrown into hysterics and I grab your headphones and start screaming out of tune at the top of my lungs to your demolition music.

Was this your plan to make me a hardcore emo junkie running on caffeine and passion? Or was this just your plan to screw me up alongside with you (cause you couldn't keep what you wanted)?

After I clean up and rinse the bloody cloths with clean water, I go back to you and attend to your self-inflicted injuries, out of habit. I give you your iron pills and I flush them down with lukewarm water for you. I wrap your fingers, all cut up from grasping the razorblades while drunk, up in plasters decorated with dinosaurs, your favourite animal, and I give them a satisfactory pat. These dinosaurs must be happy to have such an owner who uses them almost all the time. I sit by your side and I wait for you to wake up cause I want to be the very first one you see when you wake up from your lovely dreams (cause lovely people breed lovely dreams) all the time. I get myself drunk silly with thoughts that you'll caress my cheek clumsily, call me a princess, call me baby, call me anything affectionate, and then proceed to explore me all over, and my cheeks blush such a ferocious red that I wouldn't want you to touch them cause you would scald yourself just trying to hover your fingers over them.

And I felt a commotion rising from your well-toned, bony body, and I knew you were awake cause you're such an attention seeker for my attention. I get embarrassed at the thoughts of you just now and my cheeks burn except.

It is happening to me now. But your fingers don't burn, and they feel cool to the touch. The dinosaurs on your fingers seem to soothe my sore mind and I relax and relapse cause I feel your touch all over me, the dinosaurs are gone from my face but they're caressing me all over and grabbing me in their grasp. I hear whispers of "love", "angel", "baby", "princess", "beautiful" spew out from your mouth and the arteries jump pump more oxygenated blood to my cheeks. You're feeling for the zipper of my jeans, and I guide your hand, as if I'm an expert at this, a promiscuous girl when all my life I vowed to be a virgin just for you.

You zip down my jeans and I know I'll waste my time dancing down Sixth Avenue, singing to my delight, complaining to baristas about lukewarm coffee and I'll chase cars with a bicycle till my legs drop off if you never broke up with Namine and threw away the stupid plastic cereal box ring you gave her for your ex-future wedding with her.

And I'm happy.

But even when you lick the lipgloss off my lips and tell me that that's your favourite flavour,

I know you mean Namine.

Cause I never ever use cherry lipgloss.

And I'm still happy for your accident, cause then I can get this over and done with and I can rip all the sutures out of my heart and break it all apart again, and scream to the tune of your demolition music over and over again till the neighbours complain and till I drown in my own tears.

I'll admit my realisation now : You'll never see me.

My brain is wrecked and I will attempt suicide again in my room by swallowing your pills in an overdose and pass out and wake up to a room filled with no one but me and the psychiatrist and she can make me spit my venom out to her over and over again and waste her time with me cause I'm thinking of ways to superglue my sanity and love back together again for the millionth time.

And when the psychiatrist brainwashes me into a faux perception of joy and bribes me with a sweet never to come to her again, I will make a mental note never to clean your mess for you ever again.

And I would hope that the flavour of that sweet she gives is strawberry.