Muck

There’s something you stir in me, and it’s not appetizing like cake batter or tomato soup.

Inside my stomach, there’s a thick, black tar that bubbles when I look at pictures of you or hear your name.

The sad part: I look for it.

I’ll noticed that you’re tagged in a Mutual Friend’s Facebook post, and then I’ll investigate what you’ve been up to for the past few months. You look good. I can’t believe you finally went to Barcelona. It’s embarrassing, but at least it’s private. And it induces a toxic indigestion

The really hard part is not bringing you up around other people. Saying your name in conversation is a compulsive, embarrassing habit I can’t seem to break — or at least muffle. No matter the topic, I am masterfully skilled at working your into the discussion. Try me. The Pope’s visit to America? Modern Family? A YouTube video of a moose fucking a Jeep? I’ve got just the segue to a story about you and me. And while I’m telling my friends, I’m becoming ill with hot, dark magma.

Right now, I’m writing about you.

And I can feel the nauseating sludge groaning from deep in the pit of me.

But I like it.

It’s you, after all.