Copper

When I drink tonight, I’m sure I’ll be tasting copper pennies at some point. Those belong on your eyes. Or maybe under your tongue.

There are lines across the backs of my forearms. I put them there, with a thumbtack, when you weren’t looking. I put them across the back of your cat, too. On my left hand, they crawl up and on to the back of my hand, like little scratches. Small. Red. Pointless.

The sting of them felt good. I was hot and angry and couldn’t scream, so I had my skin do it for me. You’re gone, you know. You’re gone, and I could care less. I’ve never missed you. You were around too much for me to bother.

I keep seeing your face, darling. I’d like to stick the thumbtack in your lazy eye, and pop it. A patch is better than always wondering where the hell you’re looking. It should be at me, anyway.

You made me weak, more than any other person, or maybe that was just me. Maybe it was my obsession. Maybe it was my hobby. Maybe I just enjoyed pleasing you until I realized we were both such stupid liars.

This wasn’t meant to be some soliloquy about you.

I meant to talk about grand things. Or, hell, anything at all except you.

I can still taste you.

I’m going to go throw up now.

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