the last time i did something like this, most of my guts spilled out into the basket i was carrying, filled with dog-eared books. at home, my shelves were practically empty.
i brought the books to your house to quote love poetry or maybe just some good science-fiction at you. thinking, yes: this will be the amorous declaration of the century.
but instead of reading to you, i opened the books and threw them at myself. a million pages flying out at me means a million paper-cuts of jisatsu. i meant it, though; i meant to make you uncomfortable.
it was merely a turning of your head. i watched your long lashes meet the edge of the picture-frame, impassive and black. my intestines wormed out from under my shirt, embarrassed by another encore.
we’ll do this again and again, until i can’t saw through the scar tissue, until i find your door locked, until my internals, too many times reloaded like the saddest snake-in-a-can surprise, wither into useless stalks of meat.