A Story

Kel sent me a black rebel motorcycle club song and I said shit Kel, how do you listen to this it reminds me that I have a soul of some sort and she replied precisely-

So I stayed up half the night listening to half-assed compositions of a narcissistic ex-lover who’s now acting for a living and he would come and he would go but he would never fail to ask me to furrow my brow to see the lines in my face of which we’d age together and call me his sweet dichotomy and then I remembered on the day I buried my first love he phoned me furious because I was late for dinner.
No, that’s something I never quite forgave him for.

And then I loved a rich man and felt like I’d won the lottery and sometimes he was so good but he wanted to calm me into a stepford wife while he would buy me such pretty things to pacify me slowly even when I gave him everything he always managed to disappoint me because he couldn’t quite recognize the importance of my own hopes and desires for what could be the first time he broke my heart when he realized the ring on my finger hadn’t stifled my ambitions or visions I accepted it quite painlessly and told my mother as she cried lamenting at such a tragedy that this surely is the better ending than blowing out my brains in my perfect kitchen quietly blood spattered on the over-scrubbed floor done by a someone else he’s paid for blood smeared down the white walls that he wouldn’t let me paint yellow blood with more blood to soak my Dior blouse red because I’m thirty-five and a prisoner of pretty things that he reminds me everyday are of his making like his children that he’s never home to see but whom he’d surely had taken away from me if I’d stayed alive for the part when he leaves with a fresh young thing in her twenties five years later when I would have been forty that’s the path of his success that’s the path of executives isn’t it-

No, that’s something that I could never quite look forward to.