58 times.

58 times today it whispered, peripheral won’t get out of my head. All of those times I bled out you couldn’t even do it once. You’ve got my gore on your chest wearing it like a Scarlet A, but silly you: can’t claim blood that’s not yours.

It’s all for show and you’ve got them fooled, but 59 is waiting oh so patiently with white skirts ironed out to perfection. Picture perfect like everything about you, your lie, your life, my life you stole. My memories are your storytelling prose, don’t forget to wave to your adoring public. But not too widely, a meek tongue as the final illusion.

A smile here, a ‘praise’ there, but 59 is always waiting. 58 times today it whispered, but no one will care because I learned how to take a hit.

Strategically silent so the blanks are filled, with or without you the latter is preferred. 59 is impatient but 58 is gloating, 58 times it whispered but for some reason you’re the one screaming.

A buzz, a hum, a static phone line. Counting and waiting but it don’t amount to nothing. 57 came quickly, just like each number before it. 58 is gloating, a ball for the inevitable.

But you keep lying with the purest smile, it makes me want to believe because I believed your bullshit before. I told you all of my secrets and every way to break me. Naivitity, I didn’t expect you to take that as a challenge like a mathematician in red.

I wish I could hate you, I wish I’d want you dead. But those are your whims, I’m just sick in the head. The story you tell is one you can’t keep up with, but karma is tardy and the countdown is on. 58 times it whispered and I’m terrified of that counter. 59 is waiting, it will wait for my death.