The Rope around your Neck
You just said it. As you close your lips, I see a glimpse of the future that awaits you and me. I knew things aren’t going according to plan, I just know.
I watch as my love life go down in flames. I watch it go farther down the slippery slope en route to hell. I don’t care anymore for the passersby who have made a tradition of shamelessly glancing at my tear-stained face. They seem to remind me of the fact that this is a public place, not for private one-on-one brawls. From afar, I can see the nearest IBM building, the bungalow style McDonalds and the traffic lights at the entrance gate of the park. Further on, I can see the orange shade of the clouds and the pale stripes the sun makes against the sky.
And I can also feel and see your tears as potently as I feel my fist clench. You look as though you were trying to remember how to breathe, like an old morose character from a novel. Yet, you’re wearing your hip attire: Giordano polo top, your skinny jeans , Chuck Taylors, your ugly crying mug. Your posture is an embarrassment to me and for the first time, so is your proximity. I look at you without understanding what you just said. I refuse to hear you further.
There are your hands sinking lower and lower to your pockets. I have the feeling that if you have a choice, you’d retreat from me as far away as possible, never to reappear. But if you do, I’d hurt you more, more than I just did. So you change your mind. And you cower while I tower. Under normal circumstances, I’d find this extremely hilarious.
Now, my patience is at a stretch and I long to inflict you endless pain. Look on the bright side, I’m also very tired to recommence the beating and the bicker match.
And then I notice the purple marks on my arms, clear signs of your feckless struggle. Right now I see you feel so mortally sorry that you’d ever pick up a fight with me. I’m on the heavy side, excess fat and all (you even call me a blimp if you’re annoyed), and a temper to match. Next time you try to resolve an issue with me, try to recall what features I have first. You don’t have your mother to defend you now and worse, you’re not much of a troubleshooter. We’re both unreasonable when put to the test, remember? I’d only set you free on the condition that you’d suffer first, worse than you can handle.
You’ll never get out of me alive.
I watch as my love life go down in flames. I watch it go farther down the slippery slope en route to hell. I don’t care anymore for the passersby who have made a tradition of shamelessly glancing at my tear-stained face. They seem to remind me of the fact that this is a public place, not for private one-on-one brawls. From afar, I can see the nearest IBM building, the bungalow style McDonalds and the traffic lights at the entrance gate of the park. Further on, I can see the orange shade of the clouds and the pale stripes the sun makes against the sky.
And I can also feel and see your tears as potently as I feel my fist clench. You look as though you were trying to remember how to breathe, like an old morose character from a novel. Yet, you’re wearing your hip attire: Giordano polo top, your skinny jeans , Chuck Taylors, your ugly crying mug. Your posture is an embarrassment to me and for the first time, so is your proximity. I look at you without understanding what you just said. I refuse to hear you further.
There are your hands sinking lower and lower to your pockets. I have the feeling that if you have a choice, you’d retreat from me as far away as possible, never to reappear. But if you do, I’d hurt you more, more than I just did. So you change your mind. And you cower while I tower. Under normal circumstances, I’d find this extremely hilarious.
Now, my patience is at a stretch and I long to inflict you endless pain. Look on the bright side, I’m also very tired to recommence the beating and the bicker match.
And then I notice the purple marks on my arms, clear signs of your feckless struggle. Right now I see you feel so mortally sorry that you’d ever pick up a fight with me. I’m on the heavy side, excess fat and all (you even call me a blimp if you’re annoyed), and a temper to match. Next time you try to resolve an issue with me, try to recall what features I have first. You don’t have your mother to defend you now and worse, you’re not much of a troubleshooter. We’re both unreasonable when put to the test, remember? I’d only set you free on the condition that you’d suffer first, worse than you can handle.
You’ll never get out of me alive.
posted by Ria D. at
2:14 AM
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