Monday, June 18, 2007

Therapeutic Psychosis


She would say she'd only stay as long as the night was still ahead, but would give me no clue as to when it no longer would be. Then she would curl into my lap and rub her knuckles against my chest, and tell me detailed threats of her disappearing like a pleasant belligerence.

Each week, on the crossroad of midnight falsehood, she would knock on my bedroom door and ask my permission to come in and lay down like a lady on my big brass bed. She would lie there breathing so fast it made my lungs ache, all stretched out with her feet and hair sweeping the floor on either side of violence. Meanwhile I would sit on the floor underneath the window pretending to read, when really my mind was orbiting around her like disordered thoughts around a fever.

The moment I heard the knock on my door I could hear the serotonin synthesize in my bloodstream, making my appetite and body temperature rise to chaos. At 3 she would let me overdose on her, sending me on a stylish sleepwalk through her bustling battleground. Then she would shoot me with her handgun and prevent me from grasping the exact moment she got out of my lap and left.

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