To Be Smeared With Love


Lovers on the train doing their best to prove to the world their love is for real. Lovers wishing with all they have to convince themselves and others they’re happy and not sad at all. She eyes them up with disdain. Bunch of fucks. Bunch of lying, insecure, weak-as-shit fucks. Ripping up a sheet of paper in her lap torn from one of her notepads, she screws up each piece into a ball and flicks them to the ground by her feet. And then she stamps on them for good measure. These two lovers further down the carriage. They keep kissing each other and turning around to make sure everyone notices. They touch their faces and laugh wildly to show the rest they’re as happy as can be, and that their lives are indeed blessed. Screwing up some more paper, she wills them to choke on their lies, but neither do. It does rain, however, and this goes some way to ease her sorrow. Watching the labyrinth of grey buildings and roads go past in a blur to her left, she leans her head against the window and closes her eyes. She can still hear the inane laughter of the lovers, but to not see their stupid faces is enough. When sleep comes calling and she feels herself nodding off, she imagines those lips of his on her neck. Imagines his fingers smearing love upon her chin, and when she can smell his breath and almost feel the hairs of his beard scratching against her throat, she lets out a groan. To have him again. To be loved. To be smeared with love… She half wishes to continue the thought but thinks better of it. Sometime later, some smelly man sits down next to her. She turns up her nose at him, and when he eyes her legs then looks down to the screwed-up paper at her feet, she kicks them away with a huff. His sweaty aroma annoys her, yet not as much as the lovers as they continue waving their white flags so adoringly. Staring at them, she narrows her eyes and wills death, but it never comes. A few stops later and the two of them depart. Before long, everyone else in the carriage gets off too, and yet despite all the empty seats, the smelly man remains where he is. Smelly pervert, she thinks. Looking out the window, her thoughts return to the one she tries not to linger on, and how somewhere, out there, among the hive of buildings and those winding, winding roads, his lips might by kissing those of another.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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