another theory shot to shit

at a 24-hour diner, over milkshakes and fries and platter chatter, i finally told you.

it was not your fault that you were an experiment. that was my doing. i set you up to be shocked. and i set myself up to be shocked when the truths i wanted to tell you didn’t phase you.

on napkins, i drew out the pictures of my demise. they were charts, mainly. cold. shaded in the areas where i was dying. what i drew looked like drafts for a biology text book. it was no wonder that you didn’t understand what anything meant, despite my careful labeling.

you bored the hell out of me. really. you did. there was nothing that you actually wanted to share with me. you just wanted to tell someone something, and i happened to be there.

and that’s the way we were in bed. i wanted to do things to someone’s body. i wanted oil and rubber and sweat and salt and cum in my hair. i didn’t talk to you in bed. i talked at the wall. i gave orders and coaxed you into positions that would thrill anyone. i didn’t care if they thrilled you. i didn’t care if you remembered them in the morning.

ketchup and condiments littered the sticky table.

the distance that you kept didn’t shock me. my death didn’t shock you.

i got up from the table, leaving a mess for someone else to clean up. i’d like to say that i drove home crying... but you were only an experiment (after all).