Today I thought about you, and your little black book.

I thought about tearing it asunder, ripping out each individual page with irrational satisfaction, viciously mutilating all that you hold dear with orgasmic delirium, catharsis in destruction, while you looked on, observing me with your usual cruel and prepossessing impartiality, observing me disinterestedly behind the plexiglass that you call 'academia' as you chillingly dissect my every action and reaction, and I imagined searching your face for any hint of displeasure, rage, agony, any sign that I had started a wildfire under your mysterious skin, any desire to retire your thin veneer of calm and tighten the albatross around my neck to make me pay for what I did, because I had been such a bad girl, terrible friend, and even worse lover, waited for the moment you would violently shatter the glass with your furious and harrowing gaze and paralyze me with those insatiable eyes, deep as wells, solemn and pure, wet not with crocodile tears but some deep and peculiar magic that leaves me deeper in love with every viewing, coming undone in a cyclone of anger with a gravity of its own as you wring the venom out of my acerbic tongue, simultaneously begging me for forgiveness while stripping me naked and masticating my fragile ego with a mortar and pestle like you do in the lab, making me bleed honesty, which coalesces into marble which you collect with that meticulous tenderness into a petri dish and leave to cook overnight, and, fraught with humiliation and desire, I start chanting a missive of lunacy, a fastpaced litany of desperation ("I like your truths but I love your lies, I like your truths but I love your lies"), until the things I'm able to articulate leave me hollow inside, worn-out, so tired I dream of crawling back inside my mother's womb, and with a monolithic single-mindedness you write down everything I say in your neat, austere handwriting, like little genetically-engineered soldiers marching across post-apocalyptia, grim, unerring, unforgiving, and from the cold linoleum floor I watch with horror as your mask stitches itself together, regenerating with glacial efficiency and your nirvanic expression smoothes out into neutrality like taking the average of a gaussian distribution, your microexpressions dithering and vanishing before my eyes and I watch you die in front of me, as the passion and authenticity sublimes into smooth muscle in your face, undetectable once more, and you look down at me, mouth a thin line and without hesitation you begin to scribble methodically into your little black book, the one I think about tearing asunder, ripping out each individual page with irrational satisfaction, viciously mutilating all that you hold dear with orgasmic delirium while you looked on.