Midnight Blue

by L.J. Shen

Los Angeles was like a B-Grade prostitute. She let anyone in, looked less than average, and once inside, you realized there was too much traffic and that whoever’d been there before you had left a mess.

“I’m not your nightmare, sweetheart. Nightmares, you wake up from. With me, I’ll keep going until you’re out of my hair. We clear?”

Not allowing her to gather her wits—Arsehole Behavior 101, I trademarked that shit—

I wished he didn’t look like an angry god and write like a tortured poet.

“One is the loneliest number. So you said we should be two. But in the end, baby, it was all about you. The worst part is, I’d still take you back. Though this time, I’d be sure to be the one to break your heart.” —“Poison and Poetry,” Alex Winslow.

Everybody wants to be a rock star. It’s the closest thing to being a god, but what people often forget is that God has a hectic job. God creates. Twenty-four-fucking-seven. God is worshipped. God is expected to answer, to deliver, to reassure. And when God is sent to earth to deal with humans? Well, God is bound to disappoint.

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. But don’t leave me hanging like you did before. Howling for you to come rescue me in an empty room. Waiting for you to show up unannounced like an indecisive lover.