Youniverse

“Is that you?”

It begins so cautiously, because you’re so afraid (so much more than me now) that it’ll hurt you and I can see that even if I don’t see your face.

And so I will answer you in the most unimaginable ways. No need for broken vowels and ambiguous telltale words, sometimes all you really need are those blunt, rough edges. It will smear against your face, gently pricking your pores and marking them with eternal scars. As you run your fingers over those bulging sores, you will remind yourself of what has happened and realise the quicksand of regret you are slowly drowning in.

The plethora of skillful ways that you have learned so hard over the years, they don’t matter to me because haven’t I told you before I really couldn’t care less? I only hear the alacrity of cacophonic dissonance finding a way to surface the air of reality, and the only sound they make shrivels away as they make contact with the atmosphere. I could almost crush you now, almost miniature to my naked eye, with elements cushioning and pinning you down onto harmonic overtones, don’t even try to defy laws of nature, laws of our ancestors. You know you won’t get away with it.

I reply with a pseudonym I can be proud of,

“I’m not her.”