You fucked her on my birthday and that’s what really hurt the most
You tell the truth… half way, guess thats why this unfixable
I can still hear that ridiculous song playing all night on a loop, on your old, black, plastic Samsung phone. I remember exactly how distorted the sound was from the cheap, small speakers. I recorded every second of it in my mind so well that I could always tell when the high pitched notes were about to be distorted into unrecognizable, almost hurtful vibrations.
The old room was filled with items belonging to people whose bones lied somewhere in a dusty cemetery; black and white photographs depicting them were hung above our sacrificial bed. The song echoed and I inhaled every reverberation. I could feel the waves passing through my body, turning my skin into a field of ant hills. My pores opened to let enter the energy of your touches which left me paralyzed, unable to move or speak, apart from letting out some faint moans.
This song opened up a Pandora’s box of tension-filled memories of actions that took place on a full moon. And while you held my hand through the agony and distress, I heard the song playing, the static interrupting and the noise making the cheap plastic vibrate on the end table.
Whenever I listen to this nonsensical song and close my eyes, I can hear the static and the echoes, I can feel the vibrations in my blood and I can almost smell your freshly washed soft hair once more.