I’m trying to get to the truth of what I feel so I can write it, maybe turn it into something I can refer to for future reference. Something that might cut deep in a pinch and make my deep-down wound more visceral. Continue reading
Wake up. It’s raining in New York. Saturday morning everywhere, and Chance the Rapper is the perfect soundtrack. No, really.
I remember a game we used to play.
You would get on top of me and I would scream words that had no meaning at the top of my lungs. You screamed your own just as loud, the two of us like intimately positioned savages from warring tribes. Except if those syllables of Babel could be translated I would have known you were shouting you were on my side the whole time weren’t you, dear. Weren’t you?
It’s funny how later you will betray It.
How you can act like it really wasn’t all that it was and that the feeling that flowed between the two of you wasn’t It. Couldn’t have been, because if it was, how the fuck are you getting out of bed in the morning and driving to work with all the rest of them…treacherous and obediently arranged within the gouged out dotted lines that pock the ashy expanses of lonely winter asphalt.
Not mourning with private devotion or attempting–you swore you would–to cut your heart out of your chest x-acto knife-style with the ghoulishly steady hands of a surgeon.