Susan Love

It’s an unholy mess, this affair with love. Those who never felt it never will understand the painstakingly emotions filling up our voided areas. Those who only believe they’ve felt it are fools to the world around it. Insert quoted material here:

I knew true love and I knew passion and the difference between the two.

Susan Love, the epitome of obsession personified, was a moniker for the silver soul. Her head was a sea of curls. Her eyes radiant pools. She drew me in and chewed me up and spat me out. She used my passions against me, manipulated me. She played a role, the antagonist of every girl unfortunate enough to love me. The epicenter of my ideal. She wasn’t the first.

Personification of Trouble

We all have our weaknesses. No matter how different we set out to prove. No matter how non-human we want to come across. It’s the soul/mind that gets us in the end. We call it the heart, the organ of love. It splits us in two, a searing pain both welcomed and uninvited.

Hair ablaze; a shoulder-length sea of fire. Freckles. Emotional vampire. She craved attention. She wanted a lap dog.

Weakness to me is red hair. I am twelve when I learn this.

Other Men Talk

I am asked, countless times, “Did you see that girl?” I don’t have time to notice women. I only notice them when I’m with other men because I know which ones will bring up the question. I’ve adapted. Learned how to mimic their oohs and ahhs, their ability to eye-fuck someone. Nothing I say holds truth. Not when it comes to this. I’m too tired to pretend anymore.

“Did you see that black girl outside?”

“No.”

“She’s fine. She’s beautiful. I wanted to talk to her, but I don’t know. I think I like her.”

“I’m beginning to think you like every girl you see, Martin.”

Rules of Attraction

It’s not that I don’t find others sexually attractive. I’m not asexual – not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just that I’m selective.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

They don’t want a twenty-four-hour hump sesh, they don’t want to be married to you for a hundred years. They just want to hold your hand.

I feel fine. Why can’t you?

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