He likes to drink milk, great big glass gallons of it, because he heard it builds strong bones. This both disgusts and delights me, like so many things he does. He is a perennial youth in an aging body, too easily seduced by stardom, too tricky, too wavering. Mimicking an inner chaos that terrifies and intrigues me.
The milk fucks him up and he drinks it anyway.
He gets gag reflex when he does this, and also when he has dark thoughts. I can hear him gagging in the bathroom, because he’s thinking awful things that prick the entire surface of my skin. He infects the corners of the room with a deep dark murkiness when he does that. My body is getting lighter and I feel more and more every day.
I am 25, eagerly retaining my wedding day body, much more likely to attend his funeral, waiting for him to return from the lower realms and wake up to the sex-crazed oracle prodigy in his bed. Waiting for him to spring out of the cradle of unconsciousness and omit proud confessions. I fantasize about force feeding him high-grade hallucinogens.
My mind moves miles a minute and my heart beats a slow hum. I am shackled to the interior of his joyride, breaking the windshield with my heels and begging to be set free. Never of him, but the psychic nausea that protrudes out of his body.
He is bigger in that way than he realizes. Tall soul.