"hey, chico, happy birthday."
as she hands over the card (it took a week of working overtime
to buy it) she smiles, and he swears that he hears
a chorus of angelic proportions.
he opens his mouth, and she prays that this time he'll…
"have you gained weight, you whore?"
just looking at you seeing the one cloud in the sky (it's the colour
of your eyes, but you'd never know
if you didn't look) depresses me, but i'm sure that that's abso-bloody-lutely the
opposite of your intentions.
"Roses are red,
And your eyes are so beautifully blue,
I wanted to give you this card
And tell you how much I love you," he reads. "you're a terrible poet," he says.
"i know,"she whispers to the dark room after the tattered screen door slams shut.
"i know."
the empty space where he had been dully carves her away,
bit by demeaning bit,
and she knows that it was all her fault, and that she should run after him,
but something in her rugged heart urges her to throw open the curtains,
just like in those movies where rich girls live happily ever after.
in your pallid face, immovable even at the sight of me (it would be discouraging
if i didn't know where you come from and hadn't experienced it all myself),
sunshine-bright flames flicker and i swear—
for a heart-stopping moment,
staring at the sky, the colour of his despicable eyes faded into
her favorite magenta,
she believes—finally—that she deserves a piece of that ending.
the only thing keeping me alive is that insatiable fire.