He Said:
She wants to be me for a day. "What's it like inside your head". I know what its like inside her, I guess its only fair. I feel something when she smiles.
When I lie next to her, face buried in her neck, I lose track of time. My friends think I'm going soft. I need to walk away from this, I need to create some distance, protect myself from the pull of her body, the smell of her skin. She's so open, so trusting, I know this has got to fail. I'm not ready to belong. I sit next to her for hours. Holding her hand, watching TV, not talking. This is not part of the plan. This is not a place I want to explore.
She Said:
I don't know. It's a mess right? A beautiful mess. Of colours and textures and light. And there's a girl in the middle, drowning. Resigned to death. But then, what do I know? I'm just projecting, distorting the artist to suit my own needs. Assuming she is dying, maybe he is saving her. Maybe he isn't a he. Maybe she is not in agony, but ecstasy. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I don't know anything. Maybe, baby. Either way, I know I like it. I know I can make her me. The calm amid the storm. This week, I am stuck as my mind plays tricks on me. I'm up for interpretation, dissection and analysis. The voices in my head can't seem to agree on what's wrong with me. But it's a relief they all agree at least, that there definitely is something wrong with me. I'm open to discussion, I'm so open, my brain's about to fall out. Hopefully it will land on the floor in a mess. A beautiful mess. Of colours and textures and light.
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