White Rose Red

Before this, I cut myself with broken pieces of mirror, seven years bad luck times fifty one, count 'em, five-one.

And then he dragged me into room 400-something and stuck his tongue so far down my throat, so far in I thought I would choke to death, just like that. Remembering, he sees that night as a suggestion which I took up, rather than what it was, which is a for-your-own-good-order like the brotherly way that he shouted before this, "Put on your fucking coat" and the brotherly way he shouted after this, "Please put on your fucking coat", and these are the sort of things your brother makes acceptable by saying fuck, and the choking kiss was one of these, not a suggestion.

He likes my bad luck scars, thinks they look like the sexy razor holes in my jeans, which I still wear, which is still cool, and at this point you might realize that holy shit I am too young for a middle aged crisis of this epic size, but it has always been said, and I agree, that I am slightly unstable, that is to say I cling and drink and abuse and live alone in a huge inherited mansion with a pool and in some cases dye my hair and go MIA for undetermined chunks of time.

I am wild. I am a wildcat.

Hear me snarl. Feel free to fear.

This whole affair is just so reckless ridiculous. I could laugh. I do. I know I'm not even in love I'm just high on this, just getting my fix from this, just waiting till I find smack and I'm done with this.

I never told, but they can hear it in what I say, secrets, having been made to be told, seep through my verbal shopping list, through Monday morning gossip over breakfast sandwiches. Secrets leave giant, sloppy, clear grease stains on the articles I hand in, secrets make themselves known in the crossword and in the songs I choose to play. They, and in this case everybody is they, know this isn't romantic at all.

I don't feel dirty, just grimy, just strung out. Strung thin. Strung to long. I'm all of these.

And when we are judged, when the secret comes out for real. We won't say anything. We're not related, we're just fucking, we're just friends. Just fucking friends, who are actually, if you'd only look, who are actually angels falling, who don't look like they share a mother really and said mother will meet us in hell, her flaming red hair flaming, and ask us what the hell we're doing in her house, the house where we grew up, where we took her for granted, where we never paid rent.

And we'll ask what the hell we're doing in hell, because this wasn't about original sin in the first place, and damn wasn't I alive only five minutes ago? But she knew we'd end up here, eating her Goddamn Frosted Flakes, sleeping in our old rooms, feet on her table, watching her TV while talking on her phone and playing, mediocre, on her precious Steinway grand. We were destined to be damned, if you've heard, so you'd know that at this point, it is inconceivable to stop, especially when floating free. What, we ask, would be the point of stopping? We couldn't. Not when we just left the edge, while we've got so far still to fall.