Thanks: With sparkly twirly beta thanks to Brooklinegirl for I, and Serial Karma for II to V
Here we are again, doing it again. You know what they say is the definition of insanity. Yeah, well, I'm not expecting anyfuckingthing, so maybe I'm okay, or maybe that definition needs work. Maybe insanity is doing this over and over, not caring about the outcome.
Today I don't fucking care. Jennifur can screw me sideways, but they'll have to get in line. The bus smells of piss and come. Nothing changes. I've got Joe's sweat on my skin, and I'm thinking maybe I'll never wash. I'll just layer myself in history and noise, kick back and have another drink.
He doesn't say, but I can tell from how he shifts against me. How he tries to piss me off. Joe wants me to fuck him.
I'm not gonna do it.
He's done me a couple of times this tour. Whatever. Getting done I can take or leave. I bite the motel pillow and it could be anyone — groaning, shoving me into the mattress, rough and crazy.
But if I sink into his ass, I'm sunk. If I lick sweat from his neck, feel him clench around me, make him come, the fucker, then how the hell will I leave?
Chords rip me open, lyrics spiral out of my gut. Fuck, these songs run deep, carved in my bones, graffiti on an old school desk. I'm barely standing, but I'm fucking flying.
Can't pretend I don't love playing with these guys. This is all I've ever loved. This is my drug. I don't care whether he spits in my face or kisses me. The raw fucking one-split-second knife-edge from devastation—that's what keeps me alive.
But his steel-toed boots kick hard, fighting off every future. He doesn't see that's gonna leave us—has to leave us—broken, bruised and blood-stained.
Jesus Christ, Joe's a motherfucking fuck-up.
If he didn't want me to know, we wouldn't be here, but now he won't look at me. I don't know if I'm gonna smash my fist in his face or burst out laughing.
That night he fucks me hard against the side of the house, blood on our faces, blood burning our veins. A choir of fucking demons. "I did it for you, bitch," he pants, biting my ear. "I did it for you."
The wood's rough against my cheek. Paint's peeling under my fingers. I shove back. I still got legs, too.
It's a stupid game. Kid's stuff. We only do it when we're shit-faced.
Once I've started, frozen in place with him looking around—"Where's Billy?"—it's like freefall. Can't stop till I've landed, till my muscles twitch. It's not something I choose.
So I'm sitting here, motel room, hands in the air, cigarette burning down as smoke coils up, but I'm not really here. It's not my lips he's kissing, wet and beery. He isn't fumbling with my zipper. If a hand starts shaking and ash drops on his bent head, it's not my fucking hand.
I'll come back after.