My Toxic Lover, We Are Doomed
My toxic lover, we are doomed.
We are doomed to be together and yet apart at the same time.
Physically, we may join in that ritual, that private, bedroom tango that strings many couples together. But mentally, we will never be one. Yet there’s something about your merengue, a certain flair to your waltz that keeps me on the dance floor.
So, we are doomed — doomed to be dancing partners — at least until one of us slips up, until I twist an ankle and you find a replacement for me. If my physicality is no longer up to par, would you find another?
After each performance, would you compliment each other’s moves? Would you talk backstage? Maybe you’d ask her out for coffee. Would you chat about more than just your performance, your bedroom tango?
I bet you would. So, what is it about me that says that I am only a dancer?
I hate the tango.
I learned these steps for you. I fell into your rhythm. My dear toxic lover, you spin me until I lose all sense of direction, until I am doomed to fall into your arms again.
