Musings for story #2

    We were sixteen. You liked guns and gymnastics and lighting off fireworks in the middle of the night, and I liked books and horses and "Yellow" by Coldplay. You were a liar and I was too honest. I hated you and I loved you because you were wicked, you were charming, you were a liar, you were sweet on my tongue. We would lay by the lake, my head resting on your arm, looking up at the little crystal stars lightyears away in the vast, naked sky and we would talk about aliens and angels and the death penalty, and that's when I learned that we didn't have the same god and for some reason that mattered. After that, we would yell at each other on the phone in the middle of the night, and you would say that I was going to hell and I would yell at you and say that I was already in hell because you put me through it everyday. And I would cry myself blind, and my mom would come in and tell me to "Hush. Get off the phone," but I would never hang up because I loved you too much and I was both afraid of you and of losing you. And on those days when you pinned me down, I thought it was because you loved me even though it hurt. I thought that made it beautiful. "Love hurts" they say and so I said nothing. No, I didn't ever say anything, but then you would remember that I didn't have the same god as you, so you found someone who did.