I'm swearing him off.

I'm shedding him, my second skin. I'm getting rid of him. I'm detox-ing myself from him. I'm ignoring him. I'm forgetting about him. I'm demanding I let go.

Demanding.

You're the cause of all of this, and I'm sick of trying to please you. And you're gonna feel my emotions coming, 'cause you're the world.

I stare at my iPod with a hateful, slow anger and hold down the play button swiftly. It needs to shut up. The haphazard songs stuffed there are infuriating, especially the ones that remind me of Cleave (because the jerk put them there).

"How did you manage to fall in love with a clown?" I hate how nonchalant she is about questions. She just breezes in (after brooding angrily over my earlier statements) and casually hands me a tray that contains some kind of chicken and another cup of tea. I could really use some Mountain Dew right about now.

"I didn't."

I avoid her gaze completely.

"This is type-one heartbreak behavior, Miss Harvey."

"Do you ever learn to keep your nose out of my f-fucking business, Ivy?" I stare solidly at her, but I feel more tired than humanly possible. She senses it, and lacks the defensiveness of moments ago. She looks at me like she's the lioness and I'm the antelope, all wounded and bloody and ready to be slaughtered.

Beep. My phone's low sound resonates at me, and my interest piques within seconds—until I realize that it's only the low battery warning. Curses! Foiled again.

"You are aware of how pitiful you act, correct? You're like a puppy waiting for your master to come trotting in the front door."

I scowl at her, and I can't help but feel a sudden surge of revulsion for myself. I chalk it all up to those stupid pregnancy hormones. The hormones are at fault for every mistake I make.

My brief undressing her with my eyes; still the hormones.

"Do you intend on answering anytime soon?"

Do I? My mouth doesn't move with my mind, and suddenly my iPod begins to play.

I don't want anybody else, when I think about you I touch myself…

Without warning, I snatch it up and it goes flying across the room. A vine catches it, but the headphones disconnect and I listen to the dull thud of my heartbeat in the silence. I'm wide-eyed and stupefied, and unwilling to recognize that my ears are hot under my cherry-red blush. My headphones lie in the middle of the floor, neglected and depressed (see: share my attitude) and the long, green extension of where-the-fuck-did-that-come-from? vine still cradles my iPod.

Immediately, I grip the sheets under me and stare at my fingers, trying to make my slightly-long hair fall over my eyes. I let my glasses tilt down until I can't see half my vision anymore, and my throat swells and tightens and chokes enough that fat letters can't squeeze out, but skinny breaths can.

I don't look up, but I hear her laughing at me quietly. I don't acknowledge when she leans forward and her slender, fiery eyebrows slide upward cheekily. My mouth is dry. My eyes sting vaguely. My tongue feels like it blocks my windpipe completely.

"Are you purposefully this awkward, or does it come naturally to you? Because for you, this anxiety seems to be almost an art."

My fingers curl inward. My knuckles crack. If I bite my lip any harder, a thin, horrible line of blood will trickle and stain her soft, goddess-sheets.

The sound of silence deafens me.