Impregnated

Gone.

The fabric of his gaze stretching to fit my movements. The arch of my frown. The slope of my grin.

I could feel my eyes turning on that sign. It lighting in a fluorescent stammer. No. No. Yes. Until it was so obvious I had to look away.

I didn't want to be myself then, but he had waited so long to meet the person he'd always imagined I was. In those little capsules of betrayal we'd find so much happiness. I was supposed to want more, but I just couldn't find a way to deserve it. Or believe that his colors were so obvious.

Even if. This is. Even if. What does it matter. I am. We are. So weak. Prisoners of our own flesh. And then it makes us do what we never would. And then it asks us to love like we're dying. And we do. We pretend only days are left to love what it seems we always should.

And these words are what I'm left.

Gone.

The tiger striped of its stripes. Everything I tried not to be proving that I've always been.

Every moment epidemic as we languished in our lust. And love lay there in its womb waiting for us to gestate. But abortion was all we could live with.

I'd rather be empty. Than to highlight the holes in you.

I wanted to be there, but in some other way than I was. Beside him instead of under. The petal, not the stem. I wanted to be him. And then I could make us leave. She'd have the almost. And that would be sufficient.

I'd choke on him when he was gone. And suffocate when he was there. He was so alive I thought he had to be lying.

But he just kept on living. And I kept on dying.

We had so many plans for saving each other. But we only made it worse.