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Catharsis

Is it your modus operandi to make me quiver? For as long as I've know you, you've driven me mad with your sparkle and charm and bitter-pill soul. Under that slyly indifferent and glossy unconcerned outer shell, I feel that cacophonous, talc and egg-shell fragile inside that bleeds through the cracks of your perfect exterior. If I'm feeling daring, I'll poke at those cracks; see if they move. If I'm feeling extra daring, I'll take a screwdriver to them, prying and chipping away that cracking and thinly veneered exterior to get to your squishy, glass-fragile heart that, with every beat, I fear might break. And if I'm feeling absolutely insane, I cradle that ruby red heart. As I do this one act of pure mental instability, diamonds fall from your sapphire eyes. But these diamonds are worth nothing compared to their creator, so I hold your heart in my pale, human right hand and stroke your diamond moistened cheek with my left, attempting to attain what semblance of connection I felt when I first saw you; but nothing compares to that rush of endorphins, that mother lode of dopamine that surged through me, tantalizing and touching each and every nerve when our hands and emerald and sapphire eyes met in a flash of envy and indifference. In that flash, our flaws compounded, wrenching atom from atom, quark from quark until blue and green remained and always will remain apart. Nothing you or I do can ever make those two fatal flaws touch; no matter the catharsis, blue will never be green, nor green blue.



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