I can see you in horizontal...

I can see you in horizontal stripes. You’re staring at the edge of my left earlobe and smirking as you walk, thinking you’re meeting the eyes that I’ve hidden behind bamboo blinds.
You’ve disappeared behind the protruding roof, and I roll off my bed and out of my room so that I won’t be staring at nothing. I count the steps I take on the way to meet you, and on the end of a prime number I open the door and watch your arm drop away from the bell. “That was fast.” You give me a knowing glance, which you do by shifting your pupils sideways towards me and lifting your eyebrows.
I decide to let you win. “Well, I saw you coming.” You smile, but it’s strangely submissive. Letting your eyebrows relax, your irises bring their holes away from mine, looking of into my living room. I quickly check behind me; you’re staring at the mold stain from where my father’s painting used to be. It’s almost impossible to notice from outside, and you’re really watching what looks like nothing. “Well, come in. What’s with you?”
Your hand is tickling the doorframe, and you’ve noticed that your shoes are untied. Leaning down, you mutter that you can’t, but that you have to tell me something. Fabric laces commit incest between your chopped fingernails. I’m silent, waiting for you to start laughing, but when the loops have been made, you don’t finish standing and you let your spine fall into itself.
I vaguely notice the chalk lines that we drew a few days ago, still crumbling in the sun. You’re going to tell me that you’ve secretly hated me ever since I first spoke to you, and that you haven’t said anything until now because you didn’t know how to say it. You’ll say something about the time I asked you if you were on something, and tell me that when you said yes, you weren’t joking.
The yellow chalk got smeared when you fell down on it, and were too manly to admit that it hurt. It’s still lingering on your shoe; the rubber looks like faded urine and the black canvas is smoky. Right now, your voice is telling me that your parents are disowning you because you told them that you were an atheist, and it’s because of me. It’s saying that you’re a suicidal, masochistic liar and that I’ve failed you. You’re going to grab me by my shirt and breathe cinnamon and spicy hatred into my face, spiraling in, dropping me, leaving me to hang by the skin you pinched from the back of my neck.
Your shoe gently nudges mine. I look up, and your mouth is closed, pale and shaking form exhaustion. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I… wasn’t paying attention.”
The porch steps creak out hesitant apologies as you jump down them, kicking the colors and splattering dust like a prism all over the gravel. I am stroking them as my feet hoist my body inside and back to my room, where it crawls to the blinds. You doodled on them once with a pencil, and lopsided smiley faces leer at me as I watch different halves of you disappear.