I taste your lips. It tastes different. A bit strawberry flavor. I know I shouldn’t doubt you, but your lips never tastes like strawberry. It tastes mint cigarette. And I hate myself for know that simple thing.
“you taste like strawberry.” I said bluntly.
“what?” you asked, look so confused.
“is there a brand new cigarette flavor?” I asked.
“no.” you answered.
I shut my mouth. I knew it, you’ve kissed someone with strawberry lips. You approach me and kiss me again. I feel disgusted. I don’t want to taste strawberry, I want the mint cigarette. I pushed you over and run to the bathroom. Questioning things. You knocked, asking what the hell is wrong with me. I feel betrayed. I want to puke. I heard you get out of my bedroom, you slammed the door, angry. I should be the one who’s angry, right? I take out my pain relief in the cabinet. A shiny razor. I put it in my skin. The cold give me chill, make me relax, and suddenly, a bubble of blood pop out. I close my eyes. I hate when I’m being this insecure.
The next day, I saw you in the parking lot. With a blonde barbie girl. Is that the one who tastes like strawberry? I saw you two fooling around, then make out for a long time. I can’t move. I just keep watching you two, getting along too well. You know, even when she giggles, she sounds like a barbie. I want to puke. I close my mouth. I breath heavily. I sit back in the corner. That’s why you taste like strawberry, huh? That’s why you always have ‘band practice’ before you come to my home. I don’t know that the band practice involved with making out with the barbie. I rustle in my pocket, nothing sharp of course, but enough to bleed my insecurities out. Bleed the demon inside my head. I run to the girl bathroom. Get in the stall and close my eyes, whispering my magic words, “I am fine. I am perfectly fine.”.
(to be continued)