For Amari, A Love Letter

It is only because I love you this much that I promise that I will never stop being your villain.

I will stand next to her in your mind so that all my dark eats up her light, and you can’t make out a single one of her flaws next to my black mass of wrong.

When she makes you cry, I’ll slither out of that lonely place in your skull and ask you to remember all those time that, though you begged for me to stop, I murdered all the parts of you that loved me right before your eyes. I will curl up in your ear and whisper true stories of my own selfishness and self-inflicted suffering.

That night that you showed up when I was on stage and said that all you wanted was to dance beside me, all you wanted was to feel the heat of my body, and I let you stay but would not allow you to touch me, not really touch me.

That night that you showed up on my doorstep scared and said all you wanted was to lie down next to me, all you wanted was for me to hold you through the night, and I let you into my bed but would not allow you my arms to wrap yourself in.

That night you showed me your scars and said that all you wanted was to feel wanted, all you wanted was for my love to stop the bleeding, and I let you myself kiss you but would not allow our lips to touch.

That night you showed me I hadn’t lost you and said that all you wanted was a smart girl like me, all you wanted was someone to care for, and I let you stay but would not allow you to call yourself my girlfriend.

That night you showed me you’d die without me and said that all you’d wanted was to see your ring on my finger, and all you wanted was for me to care that you’d thrown that ring in the river, and I let you cry and would not allow myself to begin to fix it.

That night you showed me the dress you’d picked out for your date with her and said that all she  wanted was to see your hair in braids, and all you wanted was for her to like you, and I let you go and would not allow myself to chase her car down the street when she picked you up from my apartment.

It took more than three years for me to fully dismember your love for me, for me to gut your heart and stitch it up hollow, so that you could fill it with feelings for someone better, someone who could love you the way that you deserve to be loved. And I hope you never know how happy I am that you’ve found her or how it hurts a little more each day that you still hate me. I hope you never find out about the mornings that I can’t get out of bed because I know you’ll never lie next to me again. I hope you never think that maybe I've changed, that maybe it could work now, because I know that thinking like that only holds me back.

Which is why, all I want is to be your villain. My place is that shadowy space in your memory, from which I appear only to reassure you that you’ve made the right decision marrying her and promising to love her happily ever after. I want to be your villain as long as it keeps you safe, as long as it keeps you from hurting, as long as it keeps you from regretting, as long as it keeps you from missing me, as long as you need me to be.

Negative Nancies #3-9

"Being around you makes me want to drink bleach."

"Fuck off."

"You disgust me." 

"I don't care."

"Your face is the worst. 

"I'm pretty sure you belong in a mental institution."

"You kinda suck."

May through December

Despite our mutual disgust for one another, we made love often. It was the only activity during which we could completely allow ourselves to forget that the other was there.

Ma Poisse,

I’m trying hard to remember what it is about you in particular that makes my heart sink when you come to mind now, years later.

All I know is that when I add it all up—your incessant lying, your emotional manipulation, the fact that you weren’t even two-faced but at least three- or four-faced—I don’t like you at all.

This leads me to believe that whatever it is that exists in me that still feels anything for any part of you has much more to do with me than it does with you.

Why is there still a part of me that wants to love someone as hollow-hearted as you? Why is there a part of me that wants someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m human? How can I find this part of me and smother her?

I haven’t found the answer, but I’m searching, ready with weapons at hand, just in case I find her, my sadistic side, so that I can relish in murdering her and breaking the curse that binds me to you. 

Hope you're well.

—J

Dear Judy Moody,

I hope that you marry him because I really can’t think of a worse punishment than that.

I hope that you devote your life to having his unwanted children, cleaning up everyone’s messes, crying about never having enough to make ends meet. I hope that you get pregnant, and he doesn’t force you to get an abortion this time. I hope that you keep it and quit your job at the mall to stay home with it, while he picks up extra shifts at Max and Erma’s Casual Dining Restaurant, partially to pay the rent for your one-bedroom shithole apartment and partially because he dreads coming home to his bloated, bitchy, accusing wife. I hope that when he stays out for a shift beer with the new, blonde 18-year-old cocktail waitresses, you’re at home losing your mind, like always.

I hope that you know when you pick up the phone to call me and tell me about how much it hurts, I’m going to press “ignore.” I’ll be at home, more money than I know what to do with, head full of meaningful conversations, heart full of love, and I’ll be giving all of that to anyone who isn’t you. I’m doing what I should’ve done when we were 17 and cutting you out, cutting you off, getting rid of all of my love for you, and pushing it off on anyone who will take it because chances are, they’re more deserving.

So there it is, that’s my plan. That’s why I haven’t screamed at you or thrown your things out on the lawn. I’m just waiting for you to do the damage yourself. Because god knows, you’ll make yourself more miserable than anything I could do to you ever would. I’m setting you free to fuck yourself over and wallow in your unhappiness. And knowing that you’re going to turn into your mother—a bitter, sad, withered woman—makes me happier than putting your head on a spike ever could. 

Love, 

T.N.

Burnt out on dealing with mortals.

Aquam an undam?

Once upon a time, there was a man who wanted nothing more than a drink of water. He went to the faucet with a glass and turned the handle, but no water came out. He tried all of the faucets in the house, but there was no water. This made the man even thirstier. He went outside and tried the hose, but there was no water there, either. He decided to take his glass and walk into the city. When he arrived, he tried every store and restaurant, but they had no water to offer him. They all told him the same thing, "I'm sorry, sir," they said. "We're fresh out."
The man saw that some customers at these businesses seemed to be drinking water.
"What about that woman over there?" the man asked one restaurant owner. "She looks like she's got a glass of water."
"We sold her our last glass. I'm sorry for the inconvenience," the owner replied.
Just as the man began to walk toward the woman, thinking he might ask for a small sip, she finished the glass in two large gulps. The man walked away, even thirstier than before.
As the man walked through the city, he noticed posters, billboards, advertisements on painted on buses, people in magazine covers, all of them featuring bottles and cups and pools filled with water. The man grew even thirstier.
He walked to the outskirts of the city, where he where he remembered once putting his feet in a cool, clear spring as a boy. When he reached this stream, he found that the spring was no longer cool nor clear. It was muddy, dried up, all slime and fish carcasses, not at all the way it had looked in his memory. Out of desperation, the man bent down on the bank of what used to be the spring. He was so thirsty that he dipped his hands into the slime, quickly withdrawing it to find that a dozen fat leeches had attached themselves to his flesh. Horrified, the man plucked the parasites from his palm and ran from the spring.
His mouth was drier than it had ever been. The man walked for miles and miles. He did not stop to eat or to sleep. Eventually, he came to the ocean. The waves slapped against the shore, and the man was overjoyed. It was more water than he'd seen in his entire life. He ran out toward the water, shouting jubilantly as he went. But by the time that the man was up to his neck in water, he realized that he was not thirsty at all. In fact, he was rather terrified to be in such deep water, having never been properly trained to swim. Just as the thought registered in the man's head, the waves swelled, and the water swallowed him up.
THE END

Tongue depressor

Stop spending all your time
depressing and impressing
and just press up against me
press me up against a wall
or a rock or a hard place

The Will

When I am dead, my dearest,
fill a Dixie cup with wine for me.
Don't volunteer to hire the priest,
some stranger to recite pretty lies in my honor.
Don't go to the funeral at all.
Pull the petals off the roses
you bought to comfort my family,
put those petals in a silk bag,
save them,
use them to seduce a misty-eyed brunette
in a little black dress.
Bake your feelings into a cake,
not one from a box;
your feelings require real butter and real chocolate,
not powder and just add water.
Eat it by yourself, all in one sitting.
Eat it with your hands. Don't use a plate.
Your feelings are too messy for forks and knives and napkins.
Stay home and write bad poetry.
Buy a typewriter,
tell yourself you'll use it
to write one haiku per day,
place it on your desk,
let it gather dust,
let it take up space you could use
for something more productive
in memory of me.

Undearest/Dearest

You didn't give me nothing.
You gave me a character,
you gave me a story to tell,
which means more to me
than any love
you could've shown me.

The Happily Ever After

I could hear her from the hallway; I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. I knocked, but she ignored me. I knocked again, louder.
"Mag? I'm here. Are you ok?"
No answer. I knocked more frantically.
"Mag? Are you okay? Answer me!"
Nothing.
"Mag, I'm coming in."
The doorknob didn't turn. As I struggled with the doorknob, her hysterical sounds grew louder.
I began to sweat. Something was not right. Mag's mood swings and hysterical displays of emotion had become routine, but something was not right. This wasn't her usual histrionic routine. She'd locked the door, something she would usually never do. She'd never want to keep people out, never want to risk losing her audience, never want to keep people from giving her the attention she needed. Usually Mag's suicide attempts were carried out with the door slightly cracked—not totally open, so that it didn't seem staged, but never, ever locked. She needed to be sure that a passerby could get to her in time to make her puke up the pills, bandage her up, drag her to the hospital. But, no, the door wasn't budging. This was different, all wrong.
What could I do? She wasn't opening the door. She wasn't acknowledging my banging and screaming her name. Could she hear me? Could she not understand that I'd shown up to rescue her, as the script seemed to go?
"Mag. Mag. Mag. What are you doing, baby? I can't get in. I can't get to you. Open up! How can I be your knight in shining armor if I can't get in? Mag, is this a joke? Are you fucking with me, Mag?"
She was quiet. Complete silence, no more crying or laughing, whichever it was. My hands began to shake.
"Fuck, Mag. What can I do, baby? I'm too small. I can't break down the door. I'm not a real fucking knight, Mag! I don't have a fucking sword or armor or any sort of goddamn training for this. I need you to open the door, baby."
She didn't.
I don't know how long I was screaming before two guys from down the hall whose names I'd never bothered to learn came and pulled me away. The taller one grabbed me and began asking me questions while the other worked on the door.
"What's going on?"
"I dunno. I dunno. She's in there, and she locked the door. She doesn't lock the door when she does this. It's a game. Today it's not a game."
"What's a game? Try to calm down for me, okay?"
"Mag. Mag's life. She does this sometimes, but not like this."
"You think she's trying to kill herself?"
"I dunno. I dunno. Something's wrong."
"Should I go get someone? What do you want to do?"
"I want to break down the fucking door."
So, the three of us kicked and pounded and threw our weight against the door until the hinges gave, but Mag was gone by then. Gone, gone, gone.
Her body was all the wrong colors. White and blue, some violet. She'd put red lipstick on, but most of it had smeared off. She wore a white dress, combat boots, white gloves. It was all wrong.
I went to her dresser and took her tiara from the top of her jewelry box. I smoothed down Mag's hair and placed the tiara on her head before kissing her cold mouth.
"Goodnight, my princess."

For Rico, Jack's Last Request

When I am dead, my dearest Rico, please do not attend the funeral.
Please, do not squeeze yourself into that black dress on my account.
Do not spend days agonizing over which wig to wear—the black,
pinstraight bob says mourning but the blonde Goldie Hawn looks so
good on. Please, my darling Rico, don't plaster over your eye brows
and paint new ones on your glittering brow bones. Don't go with the
gold eye shadow. Don't wear that same red lipstick that you wore the
last time that we kissed. Oh, god, Rico, and please, whatever you do,
do not make a speech. Do not mingle with my family and friends at the
memorial, and then halfway through the service, don't stand up and blurt
out some bullshit about how you were the true love of my life. Do not get
into a catfight with my wife over my casket. Do not get into a who-can-sob-
louder-and-is-therefore-more-emotionally-distressed-by-this-event-and-
therefore-loved-me-more match with my mother. Remember, Rico, you are
a lady. My lady. Do not introduce yourself to my boss as, "Coco, a very
close friend of Jack's," emphasis on the close. My darling, Rico, whatever
you do, do not have one of your episodes upon seeing my in my coffin.
Do not grab my lifeless body by the lapels and sob about how I was taken
from you too soon. Do not get on your knees in that cocktail dress. Do not
rip off your matching vintage hat—the one with the little netted veil—and
throw it across the room before balling up your fists and beating the ground
hysterically and shouting, "Whywhywhy!" Please, Rico, if you ever loved
me at all, then when I am dead, my dearest, please stay at home. Do not
change out of the silk bathrobe I bought you in Barcelona. Do not do your
makeup. Do not do your hair. Do not leave the house. Order in from Harry's.
Buy yourself two desserts. (Don't pretend you're worried about getting fat;
you always eat mine, anyway.) Drink that champagne we've been saving.
Drink it right out of the bottle. Put on Funny Girl. Watch it three times and
recite all of the words. (I won't be there to let your know how annoying
it is when you do that.) Don your fur-lined slippers in my honor. Cry if you
must, but only if you must. Take comfort in knowing that I was naked in your
arms, and everything else that I ever did was just drag, part of a persona. Get
angry that the love of your life was so artificial, if you must. Call for more
champagne. Watch Funny Girl again. Fall asleep. Wake up. Take two
aspirin with a glass of water. Pull the covers over your head. Close your
eyes. Start to feel better.

Fast Learner

I think that part of the problem must be that I immediately understood in preschool when the teachers said that the golden rule was to treat others as you would like to be treated, while most people I’ve encountered thus far are still trying to make sense of that one.

Magdolene

In all fairness, she did once tell me that she was insane,
but not long after she said, "But I know that I'm mad,
and truly mad people never know they're mad,
so, really, I must be okay." I told her I was not sure
that was the way it worked. I watched her mouth
force itself into a half smile, though it came out
more like a half frown. I could not help but kiss her.

The Alphamale (or the ABC's of why I'm leaving you for a woman)

A is for asking for anal and the “accidental” slip into the wrong slot when the answer was still NO.

B is for beer pong and your Budweiser breath on my ear begging me to go bed with you, a charming “you’re beautiful,” and suave belch.

C is for cheating when we played checkers, cheating when we played chess, and cheating when you said it was love.

D is for the dozen drunk dials I awoke to when you dared to slur, “Are you suuuure you’re disease-free?”

E is for every time I envied the eternally true iloveyous of lovers lost in each other’s eyes when my own ears were only ever graced by echoes of my malcontent emotion.

F is for my favorite feud: who got too friendly with whose friends first and all the other fights over who fucked who over most; it got far too physical for me pretty fucking fast.

G is for your grotesque grease-stain glow because you think you look like a rockstar when you don’t bathe, but really you have all the glamour of the gray gravy goo my granny saves in a jar in her fridge.

H is for your hard-boiled heart and my hunger to be held by a human, maybe one made of some humble heat instead of your unholy hands at my haunches.

I is for the imperfect self-image I developed ever since you inquired if I’d ever considered implants.

J is for being jarred by your jealousy of the jocks at the gym who I’d never even talk to.

K is for keeping secret your kamikaze-style of kissing because I could never find a kind way to say that a shish-kabob could show you up in a kissing contest.

L is for the look on your lying lips when “I love you” leaked out for the first time.

M is for my mother’s well-meant advice to look for a “more well-mannered man (maybe one with money or at least morals)."

N is for never finding it necessary to nix your unruly neck-beard, no matter how many times I let you know it nauseates me.

O is for the outrageous outnumbering of your orgasms to my zer-Oh!

P is for the puke on my new purse, pulling off your piss-soaked pants before I put you into bed, and the putrid lack of apology lingering in the air the morning after.

Q is for your not-quite clever quips and the quiet that quickly follows in order to quell the pique to my pride when you speak.

R is for my resentment towards the way you never make my phone ra-ra-ringgg when you promise, “Really, I’ll call you right after work.”

S is for saying, “Let’s see a movie at seven,” stealing sixteen dollars from my wallet, and not being able to spare seven stolen bucks for my ticket.

T is for is for your Tic-Tacked tongue, the tartar-crusted teeth you never brush, how your tongue tortured my mouth like the rusty tool used to poke at a dying fire.

U is for my unfortunately under-touched undercarriage and your unappreciative utterances once you’ve used me to get off.

V is for my vain attempt to fill the void in my life with your volatility.

W is for when I washed your whites and found an out-of-place pair of women’s underwear, which you swore were mine.

X is for the X-rated stories of your exes that you are so excited to recite to me, despite my vexed protests.

Y is for your yo-yo yearning and spurning of your loved ones.

Z is for your zealous Zoloft-popping so that you no longer have to feel anything human and can go on living like the alpha males of the zoo.

The Alpha Male pt. 2

G for your grotesque grease-stain glow because you think you look like a rockstar when you don’t bathe.

E for your Elway-esque passes at my friends, expressing your ugly urges to score in their end zones.

T for taking out that trashy waitress from T.G.I. Friday’s when I was I was out of town.

O for the outrageous outnumbering of your orgasms to my zer-Oh!

U for my unfortunately under-touched undercarriage, unless you’ve got too much motor oil in your system.

T for your Tic-Tacked tongue and how it tortured my mouth like a rusty tool poking at a dying fire.

The Alpha Male pt. 3

A bit crass, Darling.

Every fucking grotesque harlot?

Initial jealousy—kamikaze-love

me now, or please quietly retreat.

Sex, thoughts: unsatisfying.

Volatility won’t excuse your Zoloft.

To My Dearest Red Dress,

I hope that when you hug her wine-bottle body you never look cheap.

I hope that her Wonderbra and refusal to wear panties never make you uncomfortable.

I hope that when she pulls you down

a bit to expose her breasts to the bartender, you don’t

take it personally.

I hope that before she whines, “Time to go,” she doesn’t spill half of her

drink on your soft fabric.

I hope that once you’ve been clumsily tossed into the darkest

corner of her closet, she doesn’t forget about you.

I hope that she doesn’t pick up a new dress that looks exactly like you

but in black next week.

I hope that her hand-me-down love is worth it.

Always,

Your Mannequin 

To tell the truth

I love you
was the easiest

lie I ever told

I'm so happy

to see you again

was the hardest

For You/Moonbeam's Response (October 2008)

For you, my pretty, for holding me
Under the microscope and studying me so spiritlessly, I
Could be subtle if I wanted to be, I could be
Kind, but I fear that it would make me a messenger

Of lies;
For the way I truly
Feel has already revealed itself.

*****
It does not occur to you
That your dress is covered with
Tiny, little fish hooks.
On most of them,
Scraps of bait still hang,
Cricket wings, child wings,
Worm torsos, warm torsos,
Used condoms, and
Drained bottles of exotic perfumes.