i sully. you heather sinclair. we make deep cuts together.

CUT UP BOY by the Hoxton Whore

You're breathing so loudly in this tiny little library it's distracting me. I wave goodbye to Jane Eyre as I'm dragged out of my escapist world and back into reality. You're laughing and calling me a FAGGOT because I'm reading a book by some crazy British chick who died from pneumonia (who dies from pneumonia anyway?).

I move closer to you, just like how I wish we could be again. You whisper your hoarse bloody secrets into my ear (so so softly) with a twisted little smile on your lips. I don't even catch it at first.

But then I do. And it hurts.

I remember you laughing yesterday at Paige, so I was confused. You like being broken? Since when? I stare fixedly at your mouth, wondering what kind of bullshit will come out next. No one likes a liar. Or a coward. Or a social deviant. Or an idiot savant. And you're none of those.

You're trying to tell me something with that pitiful shrug, I just know it, and those sunglasses covering your bloodshot eyes. But I miss whatever it is entirely because I'm not a psychic, and I've never been good at reading people by their body language, just their eyes. So you try to leave.

"Please," I whisper back to you, overcoming my initial disgust. "Don't go."

We can fix this. Work out your problem like it's something straight out of an Algebra textbook. You're the one who's supposed to be so good in math. But I look at you, at your big sloppy grin, and realize it's up to me to solve this one.

"Please," I repeat, and reach for your sunglasses. "I want to help you."

Really, I do. Your hand fits so perfectly into mine. You lower your eyes though, so I can't see what you want. If you even think you need help. I hope you're not berating yourself saying that it'll never work, why did I come to this prick for help, I couldn't possibly understand, why can't I just fuck off? I'm afraid you're going to open your mouth again and let the ugly stuff come flying out, so I kiss you softly, madly, deeply. And yet hardly; just barely.

You turn away from me as the people around us roll on the floor with laughter. Who the fuck do I think I am? Some straight boy? Yeah, right.

"Please," I say for the third time, and desperately roll up my own sleeves. "I know where you're coming from."

Red angry x's crisscross over my arms. You stare, mouth agape, probably thinking whywhywhy-? But it doesn't matter to me, because I did it, yes, and now it's done (but I'm not).

You plead with me, saying it was a joke. You're so so sorry, you didn't mean it, you didn't know, how could you? You were just playing into their game. Mind tripping the little fuckers. Look at the sad girl! See how she's fallen.

When I don't say anything to comfort your insecurity at hurting me so so badly, tears flood your eyes, and you streak so quickly out of the library. I let you go with your runny nose. Because today I looked into your fake fake eyes and not at your pretty smile. I knew you could never understand. I was the one thinking whywhywhy couldn't you just leave me alone?

I remember when we didn't want to ever be apart, though. We made up the entity of US. I remember when you were the princess and I was your toy, the homosexual coke fiend. I remember just how easily I corrupted you. I remember when pain wasn't in fashion and razors weren't painted hot pink. I remember when I knew who I was. And I remember when I was the faker and you were the one living in the REAL. But not anymore. I roll down my sleeves and pick up my book again.

Jane Eyre, where were we? Yes, yes, yes. Back to the red room.