The Needle

And so she became an object of irritation. Like a mosquito. A needle. Something to be savagely removed.
And she wanted to save the world. She tried to save me. And, like a mirror would do, save herself, by proxy. She was an addict. Her high came when she felt superior. And this often came disguised as help. And she helped everyone, as long as she had no emotional attachment to them. With me it was easy. I was her fuck buddy. And she could help me because she didn’t feel anything for me. All she felt was my dick. That’s all she wanted anyway. When I used to talk, to try to express something, she’d look at me as if to say ‘What on EARTH are you doing…BOY?’
And she fed me expensive chocolates and took me to her bedroom. Three hours later, we’d emerge…
She’d watch Coronation St. I’d text other girls. I’d think ‘what am I doing with nutty cat-woman?’
Then she left. She told me that she started feeling things. And that she thought I had too. And, there was no excitement once the person liked her any more. No challenge.
So I imagine her sitting in her sofa, probably after a sex sesh with some obliging mute, watching Coronation Street and watching the cat staring in, meowing for food.


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