Am I A Moster?


It’s a typical Saturday morning, as I sit on his couch, he smokes a joint , there’s Kanye West blowing through the speakers, it doesn’t take long, he grabs my hand and tells me how hopelessly in love he is with me, I just look away, letting a little laugh escape my lips, he stares at me confusion and uncertainty written all over his face, he holds me by the shoulders and asks me why I’m laughing, this obviously isn’t a funny situation, then I smile at him, I smile the brightest I have in forever, I smile like I smiled when my mother bought the life-sized Pikachu I was infatuated with. He looks at me tears threatening to spill from his chocolate-brown eyes, why am I monster?.
I just smile at his stupidly, I mean isn’t it obvious that there is nothing such as love, I slowly start to rise from the couch, I notice I’ve created a crease in the black leather by the several amount of times I’ve sat in this very position, only now it was the time to say goodbye.
He tries to stop me, begs me to tell him if I feel something, anything at all as he wipes the now falling tears from his eyes trying to cover his weakness, trying to hide how pathetic and lost he actually is, but aren’t we all.
I’m about to walk out the door as I look over my shoulder one last time, and I see a broken boy, as his tears start to form a pool he will soon be drowning in, but in him I see myself from not to long ago, the girl who believed that the beauty actually loved the beast, no, the beauty she was a bitch. And the beast, the beast was left with a heart as empty as the bottle of vodka you drank before telling me you loved me. So am I really a monster? Or am I simply your first heartbreak, your road to the realization that fairy tales don’t exist, and love is just a simple stupid human emotion exaggerated by writers who no longer have anything new, so they just write about her eyes while the masturbate to an image of her in that dress, every night.

Am I A Moster?

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