He says to me “write what you know,” as he leans over the dinner table and surreptitiously tries to stare down my shirt.
He asks me to look outside the legions of hypocrisy lacing every thought that surrounds me as he pedals the gas harder to avoid being caught dodging a red light.
He says to me “You never get angry, baby. It’s like you're tip toeing around me. Why do you act like you’re scared of me?” And proceeds to call me a prude for telling him how much I hate being called ‘baby’.
He tells me that my pretty philosophies will never bring me happiness and that he’s at peace because he has everything 'people' could possibly want. The house, the car, the cash. Then he bemoans how his life will never be complete until he's sitting in a penthouse in Manhattan and driving a Ferrari.
…
“Here is what I know”
I know that man is the ugliest animal there is. Especially, when he is beautiful.
I know that bitterness is somehow poignant and smiles are simple and often offensive.
I know that sex is a ritual people perform to avoid loneliness. That lovers often brew their bitterness in ceramic mugs to write poems about the sex they could have been having if they weren't so busy posing as poets.
I know that I am lost and floundering in a sea of crimson couples staring at our table and whispering about 'which one of us could do so much better' behind my back.
I know that I am living in the grip words that lack faith and that echo nothing more than accomplished vocabulary wrought in syllogism.
I know that I seek the approval of the very degenerates I abhor.
I know that I hate my mirror. Especially, when it approves of me.
I know that I cannot believe in the unfailing mercy of a creator who fails to forgive the one child forever struggling for his attention and approval.
Sad, sad Satan…I know how you feel.
Above all, I know that the next time you call I will say "No. I am busy"
...doing nothing.
He asks me to look outside the legions of hypocrisy lacing every thought that surrounds me as he pedals the gas harder to avoid being caught dodging a red light.
He says to me “You never get angry, baby. It’s like you're tip toeing around me. Why do you act like you’re scared of me?” And proceeds to call me a prude for telling him how much I hate being called ‘baby’.
He tells me that my pretty philosophies will never bring me happiness and that he’s at peace because he has everything 'people' could possibly want. The house, the car, the cash. Then he bemoans how his life will never be complete until he's sitting in a penthouse in Manhattan and driving a Ferrari.
…
“Here is what I know”
I know that man is the ugliest animal there is. Especially, when he is beautiful.
I know that bitterness is somehow poignant and smiles are simple and often offensive.
I know that sex is a ritual people perform to avoid loneliness. That lovers often brew their bitterness in ceramic mugs to write poems about the sex they could have been having if they weren't so busy posing as poets.
I know that I am lost and floundering in a sea of crimson couples staring at our table and whispering about 'which one of us could do so much better' behind my back.
I know that I am living in the grip words that lack faith and that echo nothing more than accomplished vocabulary wrought in syllogism.
I know that I seek the approval of the very degenerates I abhor.
I know that I hate my mirror. Especially, when it approves of me.
I know that I cannot believe in the unfailing mercy of a creator who fails to forgive the one child forever struggling for his attention and approval.
Sad, sad Satan…I know how you feel.
Above all, I know that the next time you call I will say "No. I am busy"
...doing nothing.
Haaye! This is so good! :D
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