Misfit Love

We. Maladjusted souls. Maladjusted misfits meandering among the debris of a lost past world. We communicate, but words are only for show. Just for fun. To hide us under that thick, imperceptible veil of all the mistakes we've made over the years as we looked out at the deep blue waters and wondered.

Was it worth drowning? Did the current hold us in place, or did we hold on to it with all our willpower to avoid making any wrong moves? In any case, we failed.

You speak words thrown from outside. The outside view usually attracts more attention. I take them in my hand one by one and try to break them down into more digestible pieces.

I carefully weave them into invisible threads, trying to straighten them enough to understand them. I don't always succeed, and my ideas about things are different than I expected.

My imagination takes me on wanders and I fly on it like a kite. It’s not always good. Our languages don’t match perfectly, but we try our best. You caress, I digress. You touch, I tremble. You weren't around when I needed you most, but now you're here. What am I supposed to say? That you cut all the threads leading me to the opposite sex and it cannot be repaired. I don't know what you're doing here.

I prefer to stay mute. I do not want to talk to you. No. I don't know how to be in the same room with you. I wish you understood, but your understanding is perverted by your love. I accept it, but you can't expect me to reciprocate. These things cannot be forced. I can pretend to be a woman for you. I can fake an orgasm, a biological pleasure for animals, but inside I'm hollow. Humanistic pleasure has been lost forever. As soon as the seed was ready to grow, you pulled it out by force, leaving no doubt about its future grip. There was none. How do I fix this now? These things are irreparable and now we can just be friends. Will you accept it?

I care. I always did. That she cheated on you when the donkey work gave you headaches and severe neck pain. You ended up in the hospital for months, only to end up doing the same thing. Escape.

You are running away from her, from yourself, from your life. Enough! How long are you going to do this? Until the end of the world and one more day? That's way too much for a guy like you. Policeman. Security man. A caregiver who gave up as soon as the image of his dead grandmother appeared too close to him.

I want to heal. I want to get inside your head and see what’s wrong, to remove the superfluous parts. Can I at least try? What if these broken parts of your human machine can help you in another area of your life and you don't want to part with them? Then what?

Since my recovery, addiction has never been my strong suit, but I can relearn to help. I want to heal. I want to live in the hive and behave. Isn’t that what all psychology is based on? Even if the whole world wants to stop at the physical, I will continue. And you know it.

You gave me a red kiss. You took my hand and we walked to the end. But it's not over yet.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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