I’ve seen the lopsided curl of your smirk. I know that languid turn of the elbow. It’s another drop of sweat under the blue stage lights, and if that’s too convoluted of a rhythm for you, well, you’ve walked into the wrong genre. I hate to break it to you. I really do. I’m no messenger pigeon, but I fancy you a strutting peacock—sapphire and emerald feathers glazed in swank. Here’s my confession to you, in my best cursive, spell-checked and edited with all your favorite formatting:
You’re not cute when you’re angry.
It’s to laugh. I’ve run out of apologies, so I’ll have to add that to my grocery list, but I’ve picked out a consolation prize I think you’d like. It’s a diamond ring for your favorite finger, the middle one. I’ve got knee osteoarthritis, otherwise I’d give you the traditional delivery, but it’s all yours, cross my heart and hope to die. It’s on top of the prenup I left on the coffee table.
Shit, if I had a mic, I’m sure you would’ve muted me by now. I’m tangled in your headphone wires. I’m enamored by your tittle-tattle-pip-pap-duhguhduhguh-blat silent treatment. I’d buy a ticket to all your shows, but I’m too busy tiptoeing behind the curtains to stalk your green room warm ups. The day we met was enough of a honeymoon for me.
I’ll take your answer in the form of a touch, a kiss, an invasion of my little pink bubble of privacy. Give me your best rejection. You hate to see it, huh? And I could go on about that sleight of hand parlor trick you pulled my heartstrings out of. So I will, and I must.
It’s a horrorshow, a Clockwork Orange every time you scream at me. That’s the secret chord to putting me in my place and you overuse it like your favorite pair of sneakers. I’m flattered that I even have a place with you. The way you sing your insults is dissonant and I’m tired of being in tune. There’s no sweeter clash of tones than with you. You can bend this pitch over any time.
I’ll be honest, just for you—I thought you’d never have the gall to look at me. You should take a leaf out of my book, setting my expectations twenty-thousand leagues under the sea, because that’s why I’m always winning. If there was a way to gel electrophoresis the enzyme to keep those eyes on me (I would call it PayAttentionToMe-ase), I’d hijack a lab right now. Your blurry eyes are my beacon in an ocean of un-knowledge. You’re the north on my moral compass.
But I’d never dream of calling you cute. You should be familiar with the scene by now, the one where Alice trots about the stage, following her White Rabbit all across a dizzying Wonderland. You’re not some watered-down high school lesson that I can fit into my pretty little boxes and binaries and sequences of logic. You live in the natural state of the universe; that is, entropy. You’re the catalyst I need to spark the spontaneous reaction I need for this lab report. It’s written in the stoichiometry, but you should probably check my work before I submit it.
You’ve surpassed the need for beauty. Art museums seem obsolete just thinking about the octave-grip you’ve got on my wrists. Now that’s a chart I can play.
So, shut the fuck up and consider my proposal, already.