kagablog

I am well and truly fucked.
That’s all I could think as I see them, pressed against the bathroom door, paint chipping into her bare shoulders.
He lets out a moan. He slobbers on her a little.
She is thin, a good twenty pounds lighter than me, and dark.
Brown eyes, the kind that look like they’re always smiling. Ice cubes floating in Coca Cola brown smile.
dark skin. Black hair. Exotic as the bird flu, twice as killer.
I hate my life.
He brought me to observe, to mock, to make fun of the people we wouldn’t want to associate ourselves with.
We laugh so that we don’t cry. We distance ourselves. We don’t try to fit in.
He always takes my arm and not my hand.
I am a high five kind of girl. I am a pass the beer, share the bottle and saliva, eat off my plate, because I eat type of girl.
I make guys feel at ease, so much so that they confide in me all their fears, anxieties, neurosises.
I listen. I build their confidence. I tell them they have a shot, and they do.
She inevitably gets jealous of me, then it’s tickets.
I didn’t want to lose him the way I’ve lost everyone else.
You can’t know what it’s like to lose everyone you’ve ever leaned on unless you do.
I had to hang on. I couldn’t let him go, couldn’t let her win.
It was just wrong, you know? She didn’t listen to Nirvana and Modest mouse like he did, didn’t know that he loved ice skating and wanted to visit Russia.
She was just a hot girl, a dumb ass hot girl who would get everything I ever wanted in life just from winning the genetic lottery, something I never even bothered buying a ticket for.
I had no way of getting home without him. I lived at least an hour a way by car.
I could see a star tattoo creeping out on the skin above her denim skirt.
she has small hips and slim back bones.
she smokes benson milds, with menthol tips. they’re poking out of her pocket. I can see what’s poking out of his, anyone can.
He knows I love him. He sees it in my eyes, in the way I carry myself. He sees it in the way I’m always there for him, a doormat, a test cheater, a last minute essay writer, a drinking and hangover buddy, an occasional girl, who he can get into bed with when no one else wants him. he think i’ll always want him. sometimes i think so too, even though i wish i didn’t.
even though i wish things were different. even though, more than anything, i want someone i can love who’ll love me back.
I inch in closer, shuffle my feet on the bathroom floor, by the sink, turn on the water so they can hear me.
I lean into his neck, so close I can almost taste her spit.
I whisper into his ear, the rumors are true, I checked tonight, she’s HIV positive.
He pulls away from her a little, looks at me.
I whisper again, it’s true, two of her exes told me, that dude in the blue shirt…
He nods, pushes her off like she’s made of paper. she slides off him like her arms are made of snot.
he looks disgusted. she didn’t hear me, but she knows i said something, something about her.
she sleeps around, i know that for sure, even if i don’t really know anything else.
I turn around, lightly kick the wooden door with my feet.
meet me in the parking lot, he says, i’ll be there in a few minutes.
he still wants to talk to her.
i take one last look at her. she’s scary to him but not to me anymore.
i know i’ll never fear her again.