let's all get up and dance to a song that was a hit before your mother was born (it's like a story where no one truly exists anymore) ((arguably not much of a story at all))
Parasite, you are.
The way she twirls around the room is a mystery to you. You can't comprehend her rapid movements, the way she occasionally brings herself close and draws herself away. She can't bring herself to say what she's doing; she merely expects you to understand. That's always the way it's been with you two, you think. She would love you to know her every thought and whim and yet she refuses to speak a word. You haven't heard her voice proper for three months now.
There is nothing in the background, no song indicative of a beat. It's all in her head, you realize, as it's always been. Sometimes you are not entirely convinced you aren't a figment of her imagination either. Then again, that's just plain nonsense; imagination itself is not sentient.
Before you're aware she's got you pinned against a wall, her hands against your shoulders. As if you could run away from her, even if you desired. Her hands move slowly downward, brushing against your barely-bound breasts as she looks you in the eye. You are just painfully aware of the near-blindness in one of her eyes, looking almost dreamy the way it's all clouded. You can barely conceal the giggle on your lips at the thought of what's lying under her skin.
She raises an eyebrow but says nothing; you never make sense in context. You're sure she can hear your racing thoughts, the way she assumes you can read hers. Darling, darling, darling.
She presses her lips ever so gently against yours and it's so cold. Her entire body feels cold to you. Sometimes you believe she's hardly alive. (Nonsense, of course, but you can never be sure with her. This girl is more a mystery than anything you've ever witnessed.)
It is like the two of you are melting together and you are one, you and this mystery girl are one. One being moving alone in time and you are no longer you. She is you and you are merely a part of her that has no control. She doesn't understand what it's like to be a creature like you.
Parasite, you are.
She sings ever so softly in your ear, beautiful nothings of blackbirds and the sweet taste of your fake cigarettes. She's a poet of sorts, though you've never heard her words before now. You almost feel like this is really her, the girl's true self. What you need to do is pull off her mask and see who she is.
For now though you will merely content yourself with the fact that she loves you. The parasite that you are.