Midnight Blue

by L.J. Shen

Welcome to my mess, New Girl. It’s a bumpy ride from here on out.

I was six something. She was five nothing. She was practically at eye level with my crotch, which would have been very convenient if it wasn’t for the fact I wanted nothing to do with her.

“Careful, Lucas. My toys are mine, so keep your hands out of my toy box,”

I wished he didn’t look like an angry god and write like a tortured poet. It would have made hating him so much easier.

Make me bleed. Make me gasp for it, live for it, then die for it. Make me lose my mind and find my soul. Do your magic, Muse.

I’m going to take what’s inside you and put it in my notebook, because I’m empty and you’re full.”

Flaws were intimate. Telling. Pure. Indigo was pretty. Like a wasted sunset, beautiful in a taken-for-granted sort of way.

Was it any wonder they were all cynical and jaded? There was nothing to chain them to the ground, to one place. They floated through life. Gravity meant nothing to them.

“Oh, that’s rich, Winslow. If your cock had an autobiography, it’d be thicker than Bill Gates’.”

Money is also the beginning of the end to art, the kiss of death to creativity, and the cancer to integrity.

My tragedy is like an ugly scar that’s hidden from the world. Only I can see it.”

I was a semi-automatic weapon, fully loaded and ready to fire. I was my own downfall, and deep down, I knew it.

Alex Winslow was a broken vase. But I wasn’t the glue. I was the stupid cleaner who was about to try to pick up the pieces and, inevitably, get cut.

The silence between us reminded me that seduction was like a game of Monopoly. It required patience, and planning, and reading your opponent. Just because I’d hit the jackpot and had a pocket stuffed with fake money didn’t mean shite.

Did I have a built-in cock-blocking device along with my huge red button of self-destruction?

From afar, Alex Winslow looked like nothing could penetrate his armor. But he was an artist—and an artist’s armor is full of bullets and cracks. That’s how the lyrics and notes seep through.

“I need to fuck you,” he murmured, his voice vibrating and tickling my inside. “I need to be inside you the way you’re inside me. So deep I want to peel my skin off just to get rid of you. I need to get rid of you,”

Because when Alex was hurting, he wanted the entire world to hurt with him. And in that moment in time, I was his world.

My Alex. My little prince. My fallen star in the dark, dark skies.

He was no knight in shining armor, a far cry from a savior. He was just a broken, sad boy who was given a great gift that put him on display for the world to see and to judge.

Once upon a time, a mere mortal fell in love with a rock god. You probably know this is not a fairy tale by now. Mortals and gods don’t mix.

You’re beautiful, Alex, but you’re empty. No one could die for you. And no one should have died because of you.

She was my muse. She was my life. She was my all.

He even used a line I wrote to him. A line I later saw somewhere else. On the Internet.

Shit, Stardust, that says everything. You’re holding my world together in your delicate, freckled hands, and all I ask is for you not to toss it against the wall and break it to pieces.”