she knows there’s something inside you that’ll destroy her

she knows there’s something inside you that’ll destroy her. you could feel it, palpable and real. there was a subdued pandemonium in the air – say you’re at a show and some unfathomable being takes the stage, or perhaps strikes a dead feathery finger on the piano key and say that person is perhaps… love, perhaps… indifference, perhaps neither, perhaps some transcendental emotion lurking behind a glossy aperture, and you’re taken by surprise, drawn, something rises up, mingling mysterious sexualities on the streets, in the night, home, together. jupiter is piercing your ears (trumpets blaring while you fuck.). you had a clue, oh, there were plenty of clues along the way. there was that time that there was the time there’s something unidentifiable about it, but she FEELS it, demon-driven and pregnant with an inkstained affair, madness shrieking in the night.

there’s still the nude drawing she gave you hanging on the wall, a couple trinkets, and that strange feather on the mantle, tattooed now on your forearm.

we hadn’t talked for a few weeks when she called. i imagined oscar was fine, she was fine. i don’t know. i’d been drunk, just sick of everything. she wanted to talk in person, naturally, so we met at a café between our places. she looked more confident than i’d ever seen her, almost icy. i hadn’t done shit for weeks and felt… middle class, if there is such a feeling.

“hey.”

“hi.”

she ordered two teas and we walked around the corner. night was dropping - it was a big, black toad, and we took seats on someone’s stoop.

“you knew from the beginning oscar was a brother to me, more than that. I do love him, you know." she turned to me. “and there’s something else… there’s something between him and i.” I looked at her. “…i mean, nothing sexual," she said.

i didn't give a damn. "i really don't care, violet." we'd already fallen in the most subdued parting fashion, a sort of spiritual awakening, taking the first step down the vamachara (which always was going to happen).

"you seemed to care when you left that horrible, drunken message. you were so goddamn mean."

i had no idea what she was talking about, but i knew it was true - it made me want to cry, and she began crying.

"you act like such a fucking spoiled little kid sometimes." she said.

i didn't want to argue, couldn't explain away my petty jealousies and insecurities, but just put an arm around her.

this lasted

i remember parting beneath a wide streetlight, and it felt eery, surreal, like being the audience in your own performance. we'd each managed a smile. when i got home i poured a whiskey and played some music, too.