How You Make Me Feel

It’s all incredible and uncomfortable. Can’t you tell? The way you might catch my eye, or I catch yours, and we both laugh, because this is so funny? It’s a magnetic look, like iron fillings on paper, this fake attraction.

Or maybe this magnetic shit isn’t working. There is a good chance that only one of us is polarized, and then what? A faulty magnet falling off a refrigerator? A small electric current all on its own?

Okay, I know, hey, how about this:
You make me feel like garbage, but I’ll adjust. We all talked about this at lunch– my idea of the human condition. Man hates change, but adjusts. Like it or not, happiness generally plateaus at a 6. Fall in love, you’ll go back to a 6. Fall in debt, you’ll go back to a 6.

This change, you know, was a terrible idea. Was this the time you pressed your hands into my shoulder blades, or was it when you waited out the night and collapsed your body into mine? We can tremble if you want to, but I can’t go back in time and fix it, so I am waiting for my feelings to plateau. When did you start waiting to hit that 6? Wait. Let me adjust my clocks.

It’s hard to let anything even out when I feel your goddamn breath on my goddamn arm. I feel it, I told you. It’s terrible, and it’s hard to think about anything else but the night underneath those terrible 5am lights when your hot breath races up my bones.

I pull it all away and clutch my arm and you look at me and laugh and I laugh and we both laugh, we’re always laughing, aren’t we? I have to, because you make me feel absolutely fucking ridiculous.

I am overthinking this, or that’s how you make me feel, right? Right?

I know. Let’s sit here and pretend this all never happened. It means nothing to you, I can tell. I will fly through it all, the next three months of adjustment, the smiles creeping through the space between the garbage and the desktop, between the gutter and your stars. I will pretend, too. That’s what you want, I think, it’s how you want to make me feel.

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