I don’t want to be thrown away, but that doesn’t mean I won’t understand. Help me with my emotional baggage, and then discard me. Check me into airport security, slap an angry child, pacify a ruffled hillbilly. It doesn’t matter—the planet’s a landfill, and we all share the same fate as used diapers.
Violent hard in a passionate embrace, fake love squeezed from your lips like rotten toothpaste, whispered promises, all lies, all screams at low volume. A grimace parading as a smile, sparkling laughter camouflaging rage. You never have to admit the charade, just don’t buy into it.
Sea legs? See legs, these legs, crawlin’. Scuffed up hands, and your mother’s bawlin’. He shouts like it will make him popular. Lame and lame and lame.
Crushed glass in the apple pie, freshly-washed sheets whipping in a dusty wind, there is no love in her window. Her warmth is feverish, and her love smells like a stagnant pool of water.
One missed opportunity and then another and another. And another. At some point, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that you’re a failure—these are not missed opportunities, they’re for someone who deserves them.
Look at me, look at me! An over-the-hill woman wearing too much makeup, dancing on the table at a wedding reception; a father who shows love through neglect and power through abuse; a too-young girl giving blowjobs for popularity. No species has as many variations as does the attention whore.
Me? I write.