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she hadn't seen that coming.
she missed him actually.
she wept at his loss.
fucking weird. he was good.
her Monday continued to tick tock along as she processed the
gone kinetic energy a bit more.
he was just like Charles Bukowski and didn't know it.
although Chuck did not claim to be a good fuck.
"And yet women -- good women -- frightened me because they eventually wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep." C.B.
it had been an admirable and long woo. she was rather impressed. unlike what was said, he was able to complete the transaction and voila - the cop due elation.
yet once or five shots more with feeling.
the entire time she sees herself as this untouchable puffball (yet so touched). the most honest thing:
"my life is a defense mechanism."
"I wonder already who the next lay up will be."
"but you're not a player. and you're confused."
The first instant she laid eyes on him (after the brief click of "want me"), she felt like it was a mechanism - a hunter. he was a mechanism. His utter breath calculated to ethically - and by god and all things holy that modifier was important to him - bag the pray.
sic.
Nothing was dishonest. Nothing was untoward. She peeked out of her glass eyes to see slivers of something yet she couldn't tell what it was. She appeared to be on autopilot.
She hadn't shown him Wilco's "at least that''s what you said" nor cat power's "metal heart". She didn't dance with him.
it was on her though.
she was the one who choked. she was the one who said "no, I'm not dancing with you. I care too much. you'll mock me. you'll deride me. I don't know how to see myself as beautiful in your eyes and feel unconditionally accepted." (and I promise you I'm a great award-winning dancer).
Reflected ego and if only they had had meat loaf at the restaurant in that savannah town. it's all about the trust and she was bundled with electric nerves the entire fantasy.
first, it got in her head that she was tolerated.
which sucked (and was triggering). then, she was an audience to tribulations and laments of erudite erections. She traded her pathetic grasps: "Johnathan Rhys Myers breath smelled like puke but he hit on me and thought of me as beautiful... twenty years ago." "God, it's so boring that you put yourself down so much." She became a vessel. Recovered her role as best she could. she was a vessel. she vesseled. he reluctantly became her hot therapist because he had a lingering cold and a loose gut feeling (such vulnerable honesty).
he loomed large, and he was of course a boy.
aren't they all. He loved us so much but never again any of us.
It didn't make sense. or maybe it did. 100% of the shots you don't take and all that... she felt fat, mediocre, and adequate at the very best. Instead of a compliment fest, it was a hiding and oh so revealing scar...
Walking down the river street. She wanted to kiss him and hold his hand, but she was so short; and it was all business and missions and tall teddy-roosevelting with this one. she passed something that was surely the site - a ghost of young narcissi stealing a pub glass down her boyfriend's borrowed khaki pants as she shines her light.
thirty years later, her body is
wiser and dumber
prostrate bloody fodder for fat pathetic professor
wounded hewed men...repeating new mistakes.
passing new tests.
and she cried for an entire day
that the light went away...
forgive me
and let my trespasses be forgiven.
p.s. I bet you think this is about you...
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