Defiance.

Every Friday night, she walks into your apartment with the hope that this time she may be able to find some love. Her eyes yearn to be drowned in that sleek, lopsided laugh of yours, and her body yearns to be clutched in gentle passion!

But she finds herself wrapped between the faded crimson sheets and you, making love to a man with a drenched heart. Her finely tuned vocal chords, which are designed to create symphonies, are used to express to you the pleasure and excitement when she’s about to climax- when your dead weight is on her, and your cruel fingers clench her by the waist. An involuntary shiver convulses her body, as she gags in pleasure (then gasps). As she gasps, with her eyes fixed at the white-washed ceiling, she looks for answers which can justify this meaningless-ness. Why doesn’t the ceiling ever respond? Just hopelessly stares. The walls of your room are just like you-veneered to hide the ugly spots which lie beneath that gloss. She wants to fill the voids inside her with broken promises, she’s waiting for you to make. About five seasons ago, you abandoned for her the concept of love and trust.

Where is the bottom in this black hole, she wonders. Does she plumb its depth before she fills it with chaff? Does she pour her grief into it and flood away the stench with her tears? While you shamelessly spit on her undying hopes and your hollow promises like chewed opium.  

Will all her unsolicited fears, and each of her rebuttals denying them ever really sum up to something sizable? Whatever happened to objective reasons, free of passion?