Prose

XLIV

A truth:

I care a lot. And I hate that I care.

Another truth:

I do not care for you.

A third truth:

It is I I care for.

You have been mine for months, to watch and laugh at and receive your absentminded stares. It was I you touched in that elevator. It was I you sat next to. It was I.

And I swear as delicately I am able to,

A fourth truth:

I have never been delicate. I have always been brute, straightforward. I do not like her. And this I will admit. I never have.

If her fingers so much as graze across your skin, feel so much as a cellular strand of keratin and gel on your head, or so much as hover above your porcelain, flawed skin, I will crush every bone in her body that has had the pleasure of coming in contact with you until she feels the pain of 18 months watching you fall for girls who aren't me.

A fifth truth:

I am not so much brute strength, just determination and bad intentions.

If her lips so much as twitch at the sight of you she will be inhaling the blood that she coughs up until she learns that some things have been earned through years of struggle and some things she does not deserve.

Refer to the fifth truth with this small reminder:

I am not so much brute strength but I can carry my weight. I can throw a punch. She admitted it herself.

If her mind and voice and body and heart dare to jump at the sound and sight of you on any given day of any given month of any given year at any given time, she will feel the pain that I have endured for years of watching you grow into someone I cannot have. Because

A sixth truth that we are all likely to know:

I love you.

And she does not.

It is I I care for. Me and my glass heart.

She cannot have you. She will not have you. She can look and touch and kiss all she wants. But you are only on display. You are mine. And even you are sure to know that. You belong wholly and completely to me.

A seventh truth.

May 29, 2014 4:38pm