Take it back

“Take it back!” I screamed in desperation. And she didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

And I sighed and sulked and sauntered off. Alone. Behind sunglasses I cried for hours. I wept for what I had become. For what I wasn’t. For dreams that had died.

The largess was uncommon and left her bereft of emotion. It was large and purple and I felt like it was cotton choking me down. It was a kiss, a fate, a glimpse at what was to be, but it was anachronistic, therefore fatalistic.

But I cried nonetheless. I’m not ashamed to admit. I cried like a girl, like a fag, like whatever it is you associate with emasculation. A sissy. A queer. Yeah, I’m a queer, if you like. If YOU like it. You like it.

“Take it back!” I never did say. I never did breathe above a whisper. I mouthed it heavily behind a closed door and the darkness came into me. In fits and starts I came back to myself. In a waking nightmare I calmed and became one with a moment. In painful suffering I realized something profound, then lost it on youth immediately thereafter.

And it went on that way. Over and over again. “TAKE IT BACK.” Screams. Ovations. Nightmares. Secrets. Whispers. Demons. And the countenance haunts me.

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