Schrödinger’s Boy

I will put the blame on physics because I’m at the wrong end of quantum decoherence; I’m the one who lost, the one who was forgotten, the one left dead. I am the joke of the universe. The Schrödinger’s boy who was both alive and dead, at one point in time, until now. Beyond this layer of the stars, someone had gotten what I wanted. He was the prestige, I’m the doppleganger who drowned underneath the stage.

I scribble your name on paper, repeat it two hundred times. For every curl of consonants, I summon you in my mind, and my soul ignites like a burning wick on melting wax. Warm sensations creep into every crevice of this landscape of proteins and minerals and dreams. Is this what you call love? Or a play of genetics? Fuck you, evolutionary biology. I always lose in the numbers game. My life lived on calculations, on proportions, on probabilities whose jackpots have eluded me.

I scribble your name on paper, repeat it two hundred times. They tell me of the secret — how the universe delivers what you want the most. Like life’s pizza boy. But all I get are my dues on the mailbox. I don’t hear my doorbells ring. No knock on my door, no cellphone call? Where the fuck have you been? I am the failed end of a scientific possibility. You were the one that got away. Give me a mathematical equation to redeem my chances for your attention.

You look at me, I’m barely there. While you chainsaw my brains until it’s mush, you hammer my cranium until it breaks like an armor at war, you knife into my heart. I am terminal. I am overdosed. You twist my guts and shred my joints, you melt my solid bones. A memory of your scent gusts torrential palpitations to my core. But I look at you, a mere breeze of the air in your smiling brow. Barely a touch to your skin, when you send explosions down my spine and stir a mutiny in my blood red ocean.

Science wins on my gambles all the fucking time— no mental telepathy, no teleporting to wherever you are, no reading your mind, no cure to my affliction, no awakening from this coma; my pulse is a monotone on the LED screen. Destiny’s worst case of schadenfreude is me. There is a cosmic chorus of laughter at my misery. And I’m too fucking small to raise my middle finger to the sky for anyone out there to see.

Would you fucking look at me? And tell me I do not by any slightest means graze your mind? Because my hours have all been pointlessly wasted on you.

How would you feel if I put you in an experiement? Your hypothetical no. Your hypothetical yes.

How would you feel if I put my love in an experiment? My love is dead. My love is alive. It is both dead and alive at one point in time. It exists only in the plane between the shadow and the soul.

Will you want to find it out? ☮