We were watching movies in the wee hours of the morning - movies that I’ve watched before, movies that aren’t that good, movies that you can continue to play while you do other things. I slung my legs over your lap and leaned my head against your shoulders, but you ask, “Why do you do this to yourself?” I realise that you’re grabbing my fingers to stop me from peeling off the scabs from the burn.
“I’m nervous and I can’t help it.” And it’s true, I picked off the dead skin to reveal the too raw, too flesh skin that had barely healed during one of my training sessions at the Media Centre. I continue to pick that shit off during a major meeting at work.
“You’re nervous around me? Still?”
Maybe tonight I was more bored than nervous.
Guilt appears from the corners of a hidden spot where you try to conceal and pretend it doesn’t exist but all it takes is someone with an astute eye to notice that the rest of your house is swept clean, save that slightly dark spot that has been obscured by the rest of the furniture and clutter. Lie about it and say that it’s the “space where you get creative, hence the mess”, but you’re not fooling anyone. Least of all strangers who immediately cannot decide on the consistency of your character, and can actually see through bullshit clearer that some of your closest friends. You started off as a stranger who saw through things, but slowly piled on your own furniture to obscure my guilt, and to also to make my house your home.
I do all the wrong things and you force you to enable me. I blew my cigarette smoke into your face and you inched closer to kiss me. That’s why I continue to do it.