Sickening.

Sometimes I'll find something out about you that makes me sick. My stomach will hurt, my hands will feel weak, sweat will come out of pores I've forgotten existed and time will slow to drag it all out. A headache will swing by to top it all off, and then I feel disgusted with myself for bothering to be upset at all. As if I could bother. You can't keep your affairs under wraps, and for that, I suffer, I get sick, I barf words and curse through a throat too tightly closed to even breathe through. My trust is betrayed and my body rejects you like any other virus.

What it doesn't understand is that you live continued, unfettered, infallible and made stronger by resistance, in me. Fevers don't burn you out, you give me those all the time. Withdrawal symptoms can't be treated, and will bows before you and all that you are.

He never spoke. His words were lyrics, his steps choreography. Dance wasn't mine, but his pure performances drew me to follow his feet. We never danced together, always seperate, me one step behind. He avoided standing still with all of the fear of a man courting death. His fear was an infection, catching as colds do. So I remained hot with him, catching his sickness but never his beat. The tune wasn't mine to hear.

Eventually all things grind to a halt, inevitably. The loss of the music left us speechless, trapped with vocal cords not meant to speak, atrophied. If we weren't singing, we weren't living. We cease, and our song plays on radios and in headsets, forever torn by the static of a missing note. He made the beats.

First

We keep doing this dance

These encores

To the bravos of empty seats

First on stage.

Last to leave

We rose with the curtain

And for this, we refuse to fall

The lights will come down

Freed seats, left unfilled

And we'll continue to move

onstage

Even after the orchestra's died

because we were First

Sameness

I was the other woman. I didn't feel like it. I tried to make sense of it, tried to pinpoint how a Woman With Morals could become one who didn't care. He says we're meant for each other, can't forget each other because I was first, always. He says he's always loved me and always will.Others have. Lied that way. "Don't need anything else when I'm with you"... that other one, he called me bitter. Bitter, or bruised? And now I'm out to bitterly bruise someone else? He has a girlfriend yet I stay, for the way he fits into my arms, for the ease of talking to him. That other, he smites it with one side of his mouth and encourages it with the other. Two faced bastard. Just like me, two faced and bastardly. Love or leave him? When the choice is to leave him and love him. Selfish really.
That other, he's the reason. He took himself out of the picture, took peace of mind with him. And still he cuts, bitterly. Back I bounced, and here I land. On triangular ground. She loves him loves me loves him. We've got the odds, the majority. Win.