the talk

The words kept getting caught in his cup of coffee. They were climbing out on top of each other: dripping all over the table and trailing after one another like manipulative little children. I had been reading the Bell Jar over that summer. I wanted there to be some stark difference between her and I. All I saw as she fell apart though were glimmering similarities in myself and the pages. I had taken to wandering around town in the later hours of the night when I didn’t sleep because it was the only time I could be alone. No one stares in the dark. In those weeks surrounding the talk I couldn’t stop noticing the garish nature of speech patterns. I had become so disgusted by lips, the way the sloshed and flapped together. I found the act of talking repulsive. Sometimes when people spoke to me I had to look over their shoulder so as to not have to watch their lips moving. I couldn’t believe how unnatural the whole thing was. Even worse I hated that no one else seemed to notice. I was becoming that person no one wanted to be alone with. I tried to avoid public places. I felt like you could smell my discomfort the second I walked in the room. There were quick moments when the clouds were clear and the pieces would all slide back in place, where the should be, where they used to be.

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