Wrong. Everything is wrong.

We were supposed to be perfect together- the golden couple, the Kodak family, the fucking sugar life. That’s what everyone said when we announced that we were together. That we’d be such a good couple.

Such a fucking good couple.

So where does that leave us, Lance? Right in the middle of fucking nowhere, that’s where it leaves us.

You know, I used to actually believe them. I used to think that we could handle each other, used to think that we would be happy together.

But now I think we only got together so we could rip out each other’s hearts and eat them raw, with the blood dripping down our chins and a fiendish smile etched across our gruesome lips.

Actually, in the beginning, we were perfect. I remember lying awake at night and running my hands over your face- your beautiful face- just marveling that you were actually mine. I remember the way we wrapped around each other- a perfect fucking fit.

Like we were fucking made for each other.

So what went wrong, Lance? What brought our pre-formed destiny of sweet family life to a screeching halt? When and why did we fall apart like we did, dragging each other deeper into the mire I once called “romance”?

It doesn’t seem fair. We could have been so good together. Could have been so wonderful.

And now I’d rather take a razor to the veins in my wrists than go home, home where I know you’re waiting for me, waiting to methodically rip me apart with your words, your subtle insults that coldly and calmly dissect me.

It’d be easier if I could fight back, if I could return the insults with the same indifference, the same cool confidence. But I can’t. I shatter under your attacks, buckle underneath the weight of your clever wrath. You always had a sharp tongue and you’ve become exceptionally good at maiming me with it.

I remember the late nights we used to spend, curled around each other, and you’d read poetry to me. I’d lay my head on your chest and feel it when you spoke, your chest rumbling, vibrating as your beautiful bass voice filled the room.

I’d feel your heart beat and I’d never felt closer to someone in my life.

I remember those hot mornings when you’d fling all the windows open and peel your shirt off- like it was a second skin- and collapse on our bed, and you’d look like an angel wrapped in silk. And I’d lay down beside you and press a kiss against your temple and be almost afraid to touch you, afraid to ruin the beauty of the moment.

And somehow we lost the beauty, the tenderness of sweet morning air and the gentle caresses and the warm embraces.

I could blame it on the drugs- on the little white lines of powder and blurred reflections. I could blame it on alcohol, on the enticing amber liquid and drunken laughter.

Or I could blame it on me. On you. On us.

You make me cry, Lance, you make me fucking weep sometimes, because of memories like that- memories of love.

Because you don’t love me any more.

And I don’t think I love you any more.

And yet we’re still in the same house, still tearing at each other’s throats. We’re still deluding ourselves, still hoping that we’ll get past this, that the beauty will return.

Because once we were golden, Lance. We were fucking golden.

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