Velocity

He was nothing more than a mannequin. He was my hero and my heroin; he was my view from a moving train, all blurry tunnel vision and whipping wind- my drowning pool, my morphine, designer drug. We laughed when people stared, pointed, whispered vicious whispers; fags holding hands; he was all stilettos, cherry lipgloss, and pouting careless fuck-yous, and we would laugh even though nothing they said was funny; even though none of the fuck-yous we shouted ever could deflect the hurt. He pretended I meant nothing; I pretended he wasn’t fragile- Bottomless green eyes like broken glass could cut my fingers; rusty nails and deadly; he was velocity. A head-rush, adrenaline surge and I couldn’t stand still. We didn’t kiss in the rain because I was afraid his façade of frosting and confectioner’s sugar would melt like dissolving candy hearts bleeding a rainbow down the back of my throat. A whore and he knew it, flaunted it with every seductive pout, every sultry half-smile; mascara-and-eyeliner porcelain doll- a cosmetic angel. Got what he wanted, a pretty fucking princess, all fishnet and hair dye and eyeshadow- so fake; what was there for me to hold onto? He was used by the time I found him; candy slut, his plastic lips looked so confident spitting out the words; fucking cunt- He was so proud of the turning heads and I didn’t see him slipping until it was too late. So perfect, even his blood looked Hollywood fake across the bathroom counter, trickling down pale skin more plastic than human; the stained razorblades were beautiful in his vision… and he infected me, crawled inside my imperfect body and forced me to see the world through his twisted emerald eyes. I saw his scars and pretended they were pretty.

And death seemed translucent like lipgloss in the months that followed.

He looked so skinny under the anemic glow of the fluorescent hospital lights and his hands shook and he asked for a cigarette and I didn’t give him one. And the monitor at the bedside, beep beep beep; hearts breaking. He’d ripped out the IV three times. The chart on the wall screamed suicide watch in the nurse’s messy scrawl. There was a hole in his bony wrist where they had taped the needle that morning.

He whispered
don’t tell them.
I’m fine.

I believed him.
My mannequin was flawless.

Skin and bones; the days blurred like thinning blood. They had him on a feeding tube, but he only got thinner. Scrubs and a stethoscope; so condescending, she shook her head.
“He won’t take his medication.”

He told me he loved me and to keep it our secret.
“I don’t need the pills anyway.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Liar. Liar. Liar.

He told me he was thirsty.
He told me he wanted a cigarette.
I gave him one this time, but his fingers shook so hard that he couldn’t hold it.
He told me he wanted me.
Really. Fucking. Bad.

The next minute, we were all over the scratchy sheets of the bed, lips meeting hungrily, almost violently; broken boys know only desperation. His mouth was warm, breath hot on my face as he forced his body over onto mine, twisting the IV tube around his arm- tighter, tighter… until the needle was ripped viciously out of his wrist. He gasped with pain and bit down hard on my bottom lip, teeth cutting deep into my skin so that blood filled my mouth, sickeningly sweet and suffocating. Panic tearing flawless irises in two, he whimpered, choked; I barely had time to shove my weight back off of his fragile, bird-boned skeleton before he pitched forward and vomited a wave of red onto the sterile tile floor. My veins turned to ice, cutting, freezing, burning; I pressed the orange call button once, twice, three times; fear gripping me like venom or paralysis. The nurse gasped and dropped the stack of folders in her arms; papers falling to the ground, blanketing the doorway like dead leaves.

He was crying already.
Fuck fuck fuck
it hurts so much
do s-something
fuck

Nurse tight-lipped, worried; muttering surgery.
Surgery.

Don’t let them.
Don’t let them,
he sobbed.
They’ll forget to sew me up.
I don’t want anyone to see my insides.

I ignored him; the nurse called the doctor.
Her sharp hazel eyes spelled e-m-e-r-g-e-n-c-y.

Don’t let them
Don’t let them.

The screaming started when they told me to leave.

“I’m ugly on the inside
I’m dead
I’m black and decayed and dead on the inside
You can’t cut me open
You can’t”

The anesthesia knocked him out.
Merciless like we all wish we could be.

Waiting room coffee and Xanax dulled the pain for a while.

He wouldn’t speak to me for days afterwards.
The nurse changed the bandages and he flinched.
“I’m ugly on the inside,” he whimpered.

I forgot to tell him I knew better.

Tick tock tick tock. Beep beep beep. Liar liar.

A week later, his plastic skin was almost translucent.
Emerald eyes were broken and tortured.
The nurse said he had torn out the IV again.

He told me he wanted me.
Hated me, or something.
His kiss tasted like disinfectant and dead skin.
He had become a ghost.

Two a.m. and he was screaming. I realized I couldn’t control my shaking hands.
105° fever and spiking. Pretty as a fucking train wreck. Delusional, they said.

Fix him.
Fix him
I begged.

Nothing. My ears hurt. Nothing we can do for him.

He’s plastic!
I was screaming now,
fingernails cutting into the palms of my hands.
“Fix him; he’s fucking plastic
It should be easy”

They turned away; I pressed my cold lips to his and he tasted
like electrocution and death; an hour slipped by and he was gone.

I had nightmares.

“People die,” they told me. “People die.”

Not mannequins. He was fucking synthetic; why couldn’t they save him?
Make-up for the bruises and cherry popsicles to stain his lips bright drama queen red,
and he would be fine. Broken hearts only need morphine and sewing needles to mend.
Doll-face, fucking cunt, fishnets, hair dye and fake eyelashes;
death is only the next act in the show, sweetheart…

But I’d kill just to tell him
I loved him for more than
the make-up.