Her disguised eyes spoke to me infidelities, simply a warning of what was to lay ahead. I crawled through the narrow path leading to the oasis carrying only my sanity. Hers was long gone, anchored deep below the red tide, whispering profanities as if the faults were mine. It was both ours to share, including the long weeks leading up to the tragedy. The direction her lips face, her body language, her lost desire for pleasure, even the outward positioning of her hands. I punched the air more than once to vent the frustration. It was of no use. The damage has been done, tonight something has to burn and someone's head has got to roll.
'Fuck you!' she yells at me, her eyes squint, full of rage, with desire to spit in my face. I could have slapped her there and then but I didn't. The little cunt thinks she can just manhandle me like that. I lost my footing for a short while, only realising that my hand is up in the air very much prepared to end her misery and mine once and for all. What was I thinking?
My sanity is dwindling, occupied with thoughts of seething emotions. She made me do things I would never have realised. I put down my hand and weakened my threatening pose, gathered enough wits to fall steadily on to the ground unabashed. Her eyes show no fear, yet she stays there, mocking my bipolar tendencies constantly. I closed my eyes in fear of seeing something that I can use to inflict harm, as I recently found out that my tendencies of blacking out tend to more harmful than it can possibly maintain.
'You are a fucking coward!'
Enough. If only I could close my senses, drift into a trance, pull myself out of that prison flesh and levitate into obscurity.
'--ot for you I would have been so--'
What would someone else do? Is it wrong to be human? Or is it just me whose flagrant ways are considered out of touch?
'--en you remember! Fuck all your family and fri--'
Or is it something else entirely different? I think I see the leeway, another way, the other way around, an escape route. Redemption.
'--urn you motherfucker! Save your pity for the ma--'
Pity? What for? Am I to be pitied like a domestic animal whose only motives are to eat, sleep and shit? Pity the weak not I!
'--ally leaving you for good!'
She threw me all the hostile vibrations before she turned to leave. Her absence made my ears better, but my heart worse. For a heartless bitch that she is, I sure still loved her, and that I'll miss her flat chests and her hairy rectum, which, for the record, I have very much molested like a prized trophy missing her purpose in life.
She left me a heart, broken, fragile and sensitive. No matter how much anguish befalls a man of passion, his priorities always amount to his desires. He would live on searching, looking to fill up that non-existent emptiness, verboten by the laws imposed upon by himself. Her infidelities now amount to his strength, adding to the long list of things to do before that timely passing will reach its place in one special moment.