Thrust

I will not write about the boy. I will not I will not I will not. The names on the list may matter less than the size or the shape. A rose by any other name, and all that. Words are no good anymore, anyways. They told me to try not to think in words for thirty seconds. Most of them couldn’t make it, but I did, I made it and now I can’t unmake it. Everything is motion. Smooth and rough and desperate. Everything is motion.

I can’t describe it. But I will sure as hell try.

It’s fluid, the way water still moves over rocks and fish and bare feet. It’s a growl that only I can hear. It’s the way his eyes shift and glaze over while I speak to him, because, like I said, words are no good anymore, and he knew it before me. It’s a scream a scream a scream, because of course my rebel yell would conform to the rule of three. It’s that one extra bend out of distraction before the plastic snaps and bites your fingers, a sudden sting inside a trance. It’s those fingers, curling, grasping, clawing, clutching his pencil for dear life. No one else knows that. They think that he’s just writing, just dashing off another witty epithet to be used later. But I know. I see him. We live in the same zip code, all alone, never speaking, and we are falling down the same rabbit hole.