The Virility of not Belonging

Welcome to Dear Diary, shut the fuck up </3.

One day, a friend of mine told me, “You can’t expect everything from someone who hasn’t promised you anything.”

But in the silence of the night, who’s going to silence us? Who will dare say that God’s prophecies are just bittersweet words falling on our tongues when our lips interlace as one?

We are a fragile tightrope, I know, but somehow inexplicably, our destinies are intertwined.

Because with every movement of your taste buds over mine, there’s a growing taste of freedom. A vile, perverse sovereignty; a bitter roller coaster of sweet shivers, rising and falling down my spine, speeding up with each curve.

It’s comical to be so close to the heavens, so far from the earth, so glued onto your chest. Because I am not brachistochrone against your body. I am kinetic, uncontrolled, unrestrained, floating like a wingless bird toward your core.

But the chill in my insides does not come from butterflies. Butterflies aren’t made of ice, after all. I think the answer is: they never were. And so, the icy feeling seems to emerge from the very obstruction of identity, the useless and scarce heating that comes from the heart.

They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, but disillusionment? It’s even more glacial, solidifying bones, soul, and viscera on its way to the stomach.

Loneliness is the amalgam that binds us together, but only to separate us even further. We are like water and oil. You are boron, I am silicon. You are tellurium, I am arsenic. There’s no peace at the end of a beginning, nor at the end of a prelude. Because deep in my chest, I know I’m digging my own grave.

You promised. Perhaps not with words, nor with vows or pacts, but in every touch, in every soft and deliberate movement that seemed to expose your bare soul. A spirit that remained placid and present in all its strength while your eyes made oaths against mine, stuck to my hip like super glue.

My waist swore to protect you, swore to shelter you, and there you stayed—for one night and a thousand and one centuries. But when your lips opened millimetrically to utter edicts, your words enveloped me like a tight corset, suffocating me from the outside in.

You didn’t promise. You didn’t dare promise. But I waited. I waited for everything, for an eternity. And I will continue to wait, silent, bound, trapped in a frigid metal chair.

That is, until Death comes to cradle me in its arms and fulfills the only real promise anyone has ever made to me. The only promise that I know that, one day — sooner or later — will be fulfilled, inexorably.

Because I am tired of waiting, but I will wait until the last of days and until the beginning of the new end. I will wait for my redemption and for the warmth of the embrace of whoever awaits me on the other side.