Hang
You think it's over. Can't be sure. Not this time. Anymore. You're contemplating staying where you are and watching the door close, pretending not to hear the fading footsteps or unwhispered goodbyes, or falling on your knees and crying, begging. What's the difference now? You're not sure what you expected. Not this. Maybe this. Too many things are unclear now, too many lines have been crossed or blurred or both. You don't know where you began. You don't know if it ever ends.
"I won't do this."
You don't care. Can't. Too many things have changed. Too many people have died, disappeared. You're fading. And it doesn't matter anymore. You don't know what it is you're supposed to say, having lost the ability to find the right words too long ago. In the endless silences you can't find enough words to fill up the empty spaces. So many empty spaces. Too little time. You're sorry you've lost everything you used to know (and everything you used to be).
"It's too late," you say. There's nothing left now to account for. No reason. You can do this because you have nothing left to lose. There is love. Hate. You don't know which is which anymore, and somehow you just don't care. Maybe you never should have (you wouldn't be here now).
"You said to us once before that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?"
Past. Words. Something you felt once. You don't know that you feel it now, or that you ever could again. You remember "We're with you whatever happens." You were all foolish to think it, to do it. Foolish children who thought they knew what they were doing. You found darkness. Death. You know loss. In the dark, you don't speak because the words between you hold nothing.
You wonder, at times, if you're even real.
So you don't stop him. You let him touch you. You moan his name. You don't push him away or even try to pretend to, because you stop thinking with his cock inside of you. It doesn't matter anyway. It makes you feel. Something. Anything. You know you're flesh, you know you bleed. You let him fuck you because at least, this way, maybe you're alive. Somehow. Living. Dead. Somewhere in between.
"I can't do this."
You don't look at him. You don't need to. You're still here, still contemplating knee-falling begging and your stoic disposition. It's all the same now. You no longer acknowledge the distance between you. Too much has been left unspoken. You don't need him to save you. Not now. You've already lost too much. Lost yourself. Faded.
You don't cry.
"You're too late."
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