Posted by: ambition • 3 days ago
AITA for burning my girlfriend (25F) alive?
My girlfriend (25F) is calling the cops on me. She says that I am burning her alive.
There is no fire in sight.
For a heads up, last week she applied to a managerial position in her office. It didn’t go well. Her boss said that she’s too competitive, too manic, too ambitious—silly, isn’t it? Why would you waste such a great potential? She’s foulmouthed, she’s manipulative, a backstabber if must; she has everything it takes for a goddamn good manager. Were I her boss, I would take her in hindsight. Unfortunately, I am not. So here I am, standing with a mug of black coffee in hand—zero sugar with a dash of low-fat milk; just how she likes it—as she paces around the room, halfway from breaking our new vase.
She’s yelling you’re squeezing me dry. I answer you want this as much as I do. She’s yelling you should’ve made me better than this. I answer you have an Aries, two Capricorns, and three Taurus in your chart, remember? That’s your insecurity talking. She’s yelling you should’ve never fallen in love with me in the first place. I answer how could I not?
I mean, how could I not? My first love is a forest fire. I see the houses burn and sing in glee, halfway kissing a nearby lover. So when she—starbright and unflinching—lends me her hand, I don’t let it go even if it hurts. I scorch her fingerprints and melt our hands into a burnt matchstick. She says let’s burn brighter. I ask how bright? She replies I don’t care, and so I follow suit, engulfing her with all I am, letting her drink from me as much as she can contain. It rings truer than life itself. Holding her feels like driving a car that only moves forward.
Altitude is an archenemy of everything that flies. My girlfriend happens to be one of them. She is a flock of raptors—yes, the ones with blood in their mouths—taking many forms. A vicious eagle, a manic crow, sometimes even the flight itself. Other birds wonder who’s hiding under her widespread wings, all steadfast feathers cracking at its joints. One of these days, you’ll taste the bitter aftertaste of a fall, one of them said. This is something that she does not know of, for she is Icarus and I am her wax wings. Which is to say: she has never fallen before, I forbid it. Which is to say: when she does, I’ll be the first thing she’s holding her dear life on.
Right, so, my girlfriend is calling the cops on me. Remember? Good. The problem is I don’t want to leave. Why would I if she doesn’t even let me? To tell you the truth, I know that she’s faking it. I know that it’s a false alarm; a Freudian slip of people who have me in their heart. Look at her. No, look closer. Look at how she gets off on her grandiose dreams, filled with all-encompassing glory. Look at her ravenous mouth, all sharp teeth and twisted malice. Look at her bruised knees, climbing infinite ladders and shrapnels in a dark tunnel. Now, close your eyes and look again. Tell me what you see. Is it a girl? A woman? How can you be sure that it’s not a monster—something terrible and uninvited, breathing on your neck? I am the knife she impales her gut against and still the knife she puts under the duvet when no one’s looking. When I finally hold her close she whispers do it. do it. crush me like a bone before falling back to sleep.
It’s quiet now. There are no cops. No fire. No broken vase. No sirene blasting in front of our door. See, I belong here, running in every pump of her heart. My raging firehouse, my merciless eagle, my phoenix rising from ashes. I have never left and I will never leave.