Dramatització

Deixa de mirar-me. No em demanis un gest, no em demanis un si.

No puc permetre'm acostumar-me a que siguis aquí. ¿Com em torno a acostumar a mi quan et vagis? ¿Què passa quan ens deixem, i no tinguem a qui tornar al final del dia? Tindré qué ser capaç d'ensenyar-me a tornar a respirar quan tinguis a algú nou a qui tornar al final de la resta dels teus dies.

I, ¿això com es fa?

Heartless lying bastard

Let me tell you something you may not know about me.

I was born without a heart. Got a transplant at eleven days old because my mother thought it was weird. Really, not that it was life threatening or anything, but it gave her the willies. Mostly, I think she felt guilty she didn't know who my father was and was desperate to make me whole. No such luck.

It didn't take. And so I stand here, as heartless as I was brought into this world, telling you it's not you, it's me.

You see, I have an itchy ring finger. Not that serious, really. It's just it's always been naked. I guess I kept it that way for too long, because now, whenever a pretty girl responds to my attentions, the third finger of my left hand starts to itch like crazy. It's no mild irritation, mind you. It's mind-numbingly haunting. Comes from underneath my skin, I can feel it. Like a fucking billion red big-bummed ants are crawling inside that particular phalange. There's been occasions where I've woken up next to some gorgeous woman my inexistent heart couldn't feel a thing for to find I had scratched myself to the bone. Literally.

If you don't believe me you should know I'm actually physically incapable of telling a lie. It's a bit of a problem, actually. When I try to utter a statement I know to be false, I get this allergic reaction to the essense of the untruth that makes my throat close up. It's an extremely rapid swelling. Kind of uncomfortable.

Anyway, you can rest assured that I am being honest here. You will see no struggle for breath or sign of gagging when I tell you this. I don't fucking love you.

I do not and could not ever hold any kind of romantic feelings for you whatsoever. Not even a teansy bit of affection.

However, my finger's driving me nuts, so let's put a few miles between us, yeah?

Deluded animals

I think we may be living in Delusionville, where we all are participants of a great collective hallucination. This oasis still has those we lost in it, as if nothing had ever happened to them. Somewhere along the way we chose to hang on to what we wished not to miss. And they stayed, the people and the facts, summoned by our own fear and selfishness. We are scared shitless of letting go and trying to be what we should have already become.

And that's what's killing us.

Sheer newness

Just like sex, this little game is at least a little about newness. You're not going to be new forever.

Neither am I. And I know right know we seem infinite to each other. It truely feels like a lifetime is not going to be nearly enough to get to know you to a full extent.

Nonetheless, life is long. And time can seem infinite when limited to a single human body and only one voice. We will get to accepting there's just so much about each other. Some day, sooner than we probably expect, we are going to be able to cover that apparent vastness. We might get to the end of our universe.

But you know me, I'm throughoutly slow. Going inch by inch, meticulously. I have never been a fast learner, I will need to take my time.

And when I finally know you, the entire you, by heart, you know what? I think I'll start revising.

Make me care

Write your name starting with a capital letter. Let me see how strong and confident you are. Disguise your possible doubts about me with coyness and show off. Excel in every way like I know you know how, with your head high and your ponytail higher still. Be discreet yourself while kindly ignoring my conspicuousness.

Keep up the good work. And, for future references: the more you hurt me, the longer you will stay within me.