(Lesbian) Heartbreak Hotel and Other Shitty Love Songs (LGBT) (GirlxGirl)

Track Twelve: Oblivion -Grimes

(TW/CW: Descriptions of Sexual Assault) My dearest comrades, acquaintances, and those of you who are still hanging around only to give a strikingly unwitted review about my one-dimensionality and my failure to meet the needs and desires of the LGBT community: I raise you a question.

Do you know what it feels like to die?

If you're chuckling to yourself about what a stupid question that is, then clearly the inquiry wasn't meant for you and you can go ahead and fuck right off, because this one's personal.

So, do you know what it feels like to die?

I think that some of us are a little bit too comfortable with death these days, but I can sincerely assure those of you who aren't acquainted; death does not a solid companion make.

Death is something of a flirt who will wilt your organs and force-feed you rat-poison until you're nothing left but a walking skeleton, bones welded together with rot. Death nestles herself into your pillow and whispers in your ear all night until you start wearing dark circles under your eyes like eyeliner. She weaves her way into your every thought and forces herself out of every sentence... every joke, every dream, and every desire until people are left wondering what in god's name is wrong with you, and why the fuck would you ever joke about that? After all, suicide is the leading cause of death for teens, right, and I wouldn't want to be caught showing any signs of depression. Because mental illness isn't a joke! So don't talk about it!

Don't worry, I'm fine. Dying isn't really about closing your eyes and drifting away, for better or for worse. Dying is living with her inside you, nourishing her with every intake of breath. Death will hold up your limbs like a scarecrow and parade you around like a goddamn puppet.

For me, dying began with two arms attached to a boy who learned to never take no as an answer.

Quinton Zuckos really was a god damn overachiever. And I fucking hate overachievers.

I thought that Quinton could have been the kind of person I could love. Sitting stupidly at the forefront of his personality was his humor, which seemed to radiate negatively into the world. The way he could embarrass people with just one zinger put him in that incomprehensible space where he is somehow perceived as above everybody else. Somehow, he is popular, but the general consensus is that we all hate the guy. As a fellow narcissistic asshole, however, this kind of behavior had been intriguing to me-- and before I knew better, I would have even gone so far as to call it downright alluring. Sex appeal at it's finest, ladies and gents. This was the closest thing to physical attraction that I had ever felt. That is, before I kissed Bethany.

Quinton didn't really have friends. Sound familiar? There are the people that laugh at Quinton's jokes, and then there are people who land on the receiving end of said jokes.

And then there was me.

For a couple of months in the middle of Junior year, I was the only person that Quinton seemed to have any sense of empathy for. And on the surface, the feeling was mutual. At least, it was easy to pretend it was. In fact, everything with Quinton was just sort of... easy. Like maybe I didn't always have to pretend to have a good time, because I actually was. Or maybe I didn't really like kissing him, but being around him really wasn't so bad.

Maybe Quinton was the first friend I ever had.

Being with Quinton was kind of like being with Cole, except our infamy almost seemed to be replaced with nefarity, and being feared was the newest high I couldn't help but chase. It was just downright fun, and unlike the pack of dude-bros that surrounded him, I never had to worry about Quinton turning on me. I was his babygirl, and he would never lay a finger on me. It was a bit of a Joker and Harley Quinn dynamic, which, actually, sort of highlights just how god damn awful it really was. And isn't Harley Quinn more into Poison Ivy, anyways? I'm starting to think that DC stole the rights to my life story, dressed me up in booty shorts, and called it a day.