Tag Archives: regret

last one

I struggle with identity, hustling my friends for fees, like my posts and like my feed and if it’s not enough I flee, I see these flaws, these traits I treat with such distaste and patient greed, every friend who cared for me I push away, I vaccinate, I take a hit you take the bait, I call for absence, call for space, silent contemplation’s mate, but damn I sure do miss those days, writing for that small Crusade, banding up to flip the page it paved the way for so much praise I fell addicted, felt the rage of falling short on certain days and so I left, turned my back and kept the pen inside my chest and that’s the day I started fresh, wrote like fire, read like the wind (like flipping pages) Vonnegut, Pirsig, Hemingway, print, the pages in my fingers felt like grace before a drink, the education every writer needs contrast, contrast, exposure, risk. But I was playing it safe, wasn’t I? Writing for myself was safe, my inner demon wasn’t praise but a lack of feedback leaves you strayed, a desert full of endless words and sure it felt so good to be afraid, to be alone and avoid the race, to anchor down inside your mind and float yourself into a glaze.

But today I went back and saw what I didn’t let myself see and I regret acting so selfishly, delving deep into the wells of grief, self pity is a tunnel and I was driving it at top speeds.

What it almost was

There it goes. My grandmother gave her that plate. Now it’s on a UFO trajectory to the wall like it’s area 51. I don’t have to duck – she has terrible aim. Or unclear intentions.

Her eyes water when she yells this loud. Her hands flex out and she leans at me like she’s catapulting her words. When she stops screaming I assume it’s my turn to talk so I say the wrong thing. I always say the wrong thing.

She pushes the lamp over because it’s going to solve our problems if that fucking blue lamp is on the floor. If she were a man we’d be four bloody knuckles into a fight by now. God I wish she were a man so I could beat the shit out of her. Here she comes.

She stomps over the floor like our neighbors pay her for it. Then she jabs me in the chest and drops my car keys in my hands. I have to leave, of course. In our apartment where I pay for most of the rent, but I have to leave. Fuck me, go fuck myself, fucking fuck fuck. She’s always been awful at using curse words in a sentence.

I walk to the door, but how did I know this would happen. Am I just going to leave? Just like that? Well shit, isn’t that what you wanted? Now she says I don’t care about this relationship. Maybe I don’t. Can I say that? I just want to tell her I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this. I don’t care about you, I don’t care about our kids, I don’t care about this apartment, I don’t care about this life. I just want to leave. Hitchhike on the bumper of a semi headed right to Hell. I’d rather have Satan rape me repeatedly in the ass than inhale another molecule of your Britney Spears perfume.

She asks if I ever even loved her. She won’t like the answer so I don’t say anything. I can leave, she says, and she becomes soft. She’s raged out. Her body slumps like a bean bag chair and the tears breach her lashes.

Guilt settles into my gut. The crossroads. I’m here once a week and I always pick the wrong road. No, less like a crossroad, more like a roundabout. All I have to do is take the exit.

Of course I love you, I say. I’ve always loved you.

Sorry Satan, our date will have to wait.