why did you chew up his heart just to spit it out?
was the only place you could find yourself on a road running away from the people you have left bleeding?
drunken poetry never made any sense, or at least not vy’s. especially not vy’s. they normally found themselves in bouts of laughter re-reading what they’d written the morning after. consider it a makeshift hangover cure, they told themselves the first time, and since then, it stuck.
until today. the morning after their birthday celebration. 20 year old vy had to deal with problems sparked by 19 year old vy—the first being stanzas that actually made sense. stanzas that were honest.
ed can’t quite meet their eyes at times. when he does, there’s a hint of the grief from when he held the letter—their letter—over his heart. especially now, when their hand brushes over his shoulder or they lean in a little too close.
he feigned indifference, but vy would always notice his muscles stiffen. or the way he would recoil, as if he’d been scorched. and when the two of them awkwardly laughed things off, vy can’t help but wonder at the shared hurt, the intimate knowledge that they changed him as much as he changed them.
they want to say, i didn’t mean to, but it rings untrue.
they didn’t mean to, but they’d wrote verbatim, i’m sorry i’m not her. i’m sorry you fell for it.
they didn’t mean to, but they told him to forget about it. they told him to move on.
vy had needed…space. needs space. it’s difficult, given their status as roommates, but they make do. they’re only home when they need to be—when ed isn’t. they’re out the door whenever possible—when ed’s heading in.
conversations are scarce. they aren’t the late-night talks ariel had instigated. they aren’t the exchanged giggles over piss poor pick-up lines. these conversations are requests to brew coffee. complaints to do the dishes. threats to pack up and leave.
who knew projected anger—grievances about too much creamer in their coffee—would be what keeps them awake at night?
the under-eye bags that’d gradually begun to creep onto ed’s face suggests that it’s mutual.
( three months later, and vy is still sleepless. no amount of liquor sings them a good enough lullaby.
three months later, and question after question after question continues to plague their head. does he still think about her me? does he miss her my touch? does he still ache the way i do? )
“ i don’t know, ” vy answers their reflection. it’s flat. blunt. none of the bravado they usually carry so well.
it’s flat and blunt in the same way their expression is. in the mirror, it shutters, gaze falling to the floor, mouth pulled down at the corners. the pinch between their eyebrows leaves a wrinkle that’s tempting to smooth away.
