He is emotionally unavailable. Emotionally fucking gone, stone and going through the motions. In his art, it's all chaos and some dark humor and sex. No amount of tits and pussy will make him feel anything. No amount of money will buy him happiness.
All I wanted was to be in his heart. I fucked up, I got mad. I let the evilness of jealousy seed itself and fester, my heart growing dark with every word to another woman, every smile to a text.
So drunk and angry, I don't remember what I said or what I did. He tells me I pissed in his guitar case. And even though I don't remember it, I know what I was feeling. The metallic taste of vengeance and rebellion like blood on my lips, though it is me who bleeds, but without relief of touch or pain.
When I left, he came in to hug me and kiss me on the mouth, but I turned my face and loosely draped one arm around him, letting my lips barely touch his jaw, trying not to breathe the sweet sent of his sweat. I only glanced at him, but I think he smiled as if there was anything to be smiling about. He probably fucked that girl. He probably fucked that girl and now all I can think about is any girl he's fucking or may have fucked or might fuck, I just see blood and hear screams, envisioning me sweaty and out of breath and standing over their agonizing bodies, and in my head I punched him as hard as I could in the face before getting into the cab.
What right do I have to this anger? What right, when I am the one who fucked it up.
The reality is, I just wanted to cry and magically stop time to stay in his arms for a while.
Another potential great thing, ruined by Relationship Pyrotechnics.
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