Flooding Red

My heart is perfect because you’re inside it. Simultaneously, my head hurts because I think about you so much. I wish you’d stop rattling around in my ribcage, it hurts quite a lot. I’m certain that’s why I lose my breath when I think about you. It’s obviously you using my lungs as a cushion. I can imagine you now, sprawled across the fleshy tissue. That shade of pink does wonders to the sparkles in your eyes. My eyes dull with pain as my cranium rocks and shakes like you shook your hair. Drifting apart, I’m realizing this sea is more filled with indifference than with tears. I’m not sure which is worse.

After all, there are plenty of other fish in sea. So why do you, such a tiny minnow, keep choking me?

Go on, swim off. Don’t look back. I know I’m not. Not at all. How can I, while I’m slowly sinking my own boat? The indifference is so cold, it numbs. I would love the feeling, if I weren’t so indifferent to it. Aren’t tears supposed to be blue, not red?

And you too. Shouldn’t we be friends? Why is it that all we can seem to do is fight? Honestly sometimes I don’t even remember a time before we decided we couldn’t possibly get along. I wonder if you even remember us being friends at all, you were so young. You’re so different, too different from me. I can’t understand you, and I don’t think you understand that I can’t understand. Maybe someday when we grow old and wrinkled we can be friends again. I think I’d like that. Maybe it’s not possible. But maybe it is.

You, with your skepticism only confirms what I knew all along. I doesn’t make me sad, not really, but more disappointed. I thought you’d learned to do better. And I know it’s not fair to blame you for what you never did, but it’s not really fair to me either, since you’re so eager to tell me what you never did was always what I should have done.  It’s only when we escape from the city to the sea that I see you really calm. The ocean does something for you. And me, too, I suppose. I like the rhythm. Lub dub lub dub.

As mundane mornings ooze into boring afternoons, I sometimes press palms into my eyes until I see stars. Just a little bit harder, and I see red. I imagine it’s the same color of my heart.

Flooding red.


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