Why is it that one runs to one’s ruin?

Why is destruction such a fascination?
– Oscar Wilde

Well aren’t you a special little thing.
Leaving bite marks on the skin you swore to never touch, growing in the spaces your bodies make when they’re wide open and begging.
Tell me how you became so hollow you had to swallow me whole to feel something, then tell me how it doesn’t mean anything anymore.  Pretend I’m not choking on the aftermath of you, then pretend you don’t taste me in your cavities when she leaves.
When your father asks you why your teeth ache, smile and tell him you’ve never tasted anything so bittersweet.
In another world we don’t even need to have this conversation.
In another world you already know what I want to say before I open my mouth.
There is no need for words.
You’ll tell me that you’re afraid to be alone in the way you overfill both of our coffee mugs or the way you never make my side of the bed.
I’ll hear all your insecurities in your hands; the whiskey they’ve poured, the broken glasses they’ve caused, the shaky eggs they’ve fried.
You’ll know my last heartbreak and the way I end every phone call with just.. call me back when you can instead of goodbye.
You’ll know I’ve missed you when you come back to all the lights off, the bed made, and I’m curled up in the center, never under the sheets without you.
In another world we don’t have to say things to make them real.
We are so many worlds apart now.
There are silences between us that are far too great to touch.
Silences too strong for us to even try to undo.
Now tell me, when did you lose all your words for me?
When did your lips pull back and your tongue recoil into your own mouth?
You’d think I would have talked more.
Spoken louder and closer to your ears if I knew that our mouths would turn empty for each other.  I would have made you say your words again, softer and slower this time.
I would swallow your words and listen to them over and over.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write
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