Ten Thousand Saints

The fuck have you done to me? What the fuck have you done to me, baby? Standing on a balcony, hands shaking, with a fag between my fingers and smoke oozing out from between my lips. That’s how you have me each time you’re the same kind and caring person that somehow took a liking to the sad trainwreck of a person I was two years ago. Whenever it got too bad to handle you were there to whisper sweet nothings into the night. And you fucked them over, you fucked your best friends over just to hold my hand and kiss me whenever I needed a friend. You kissed me on the very same floor she used to sit, crying over my lack of affection, you kissed me on her very own – and rather ugly – couch.

You made out with me with her just a room away from us, you kissed me like you fucking meant it and took me out on dates that weren’t supposed to mean anything but kind of did, nontheless. And I just can’t wrap my head around it. Why would you even care, what have I given to you, who I am to deserve that kind of attention? Your love. Your gentleness.

In a city of a thousand sinners you were the only unstained, unspoiled globe of light and yet, you were ready to get your hands dirty for me. To lie and deceive, to betray and sell out those who held you dear. Just to keep me afloat, inches beyond the surface, without an inch of regret. You would get shitfaced when I wanted you to, you would hold me close and guide my hands under the ruffles of your skirt without even a moment of hesitation. And the punchline is? You don’t even like girls. You don’t, but when you’re with me, you say you feel like you should. Like you’re supposed to be with me, like you’re the odd piece out that would complete my jumble of a puzzle.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I kind of think you are. I can find no words to express how precious and delicate you are. How much I fucking love you to bits and pieces but in all the wrong ways. Because ours is a love without a spark, but a love that’s true and deep, nontheless.

It just kind of clicks, you know? Our dispassionate cluster of a love that’s far too deep and far too shallow at the same time. We’re not lovers; at times, we’re hardly even friends.

But that’s how we work; we’re both ruled by fleeting fancies, emotions that come and go on a whim, periods of long, dark agony, episodes that are grey and solid (kind of like chewing on asphalt; they leave you aching from within), and days that are just perfect and happy and so fucking fluffy that you could drown in the ruffles of our pretty pink blotch of positivity.

You, baby, are my gateway to a world that gravitates around me and me only. Well, okay, and you, yeah? You’re the only girl worthy enough for me to crown her my queen. But still, I will never, ever, love you enough to make your care worthwile. Will you still let your soul pay the price for loving one of the Thousand Sinners?

‘Cause baby, you should run.

JBV