Comatose.

I always hated the way you sounded when you whispered my name. Drunk and undeniably needy. But that was how it was. A merry-go-round of kisses on necks and what we liked to pretend were little shots of heaven. But when I was lying next to you the morning after, watching the harsh sunlight wrap itself like a noose around your neck, I just wanted it to stop.

You liked to think you could keep up but you weren’t god, even if that was how you saw yourself. Ten shots of “heaven” later and you were a superstar. Add one more to this lethal cocktail and you were out. It was in the quiet hours while you were sleeping it off that I prayed to God, and honey this time I don’t mean you, for the screaming to stop. But having bruised knees and a sore throat doesn’t make you a saint. I was still just a sinner no one would save. At least I had learned that begging letitstopletitstoppleasegodohshowmemercymakeitfuckingstop usually just made it worse.

I was putting notes in bottles and sending them out to sea just praying for a lifeboat when you found me. You scooped me up into your arms and promised you weren’t a monster and oh how I fell. For those pretty eyes and those pretty lines. But monsters don’t have to be ugly. They can have the face of an angel and the sad eyes of a lost puppy and the chest of the unlikely hero from the fairytales you cling to like a prayer. Ignorance is next to godliness you know. And being beautiful didn’t make you any less of a monster. It only made you more deadly.

So kill me now before the rust sets in…