Tag: divorce

Two Wrongs Don’t Make A Right and Three Lefts Will Get You Nowhere (in bed)

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” She said. “I’m sorry for making you feel as if you did.”

I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling. I wonder how strangers do it, and wince at their ability to feign interest or sadness with a sort of quiet mix of pity and admiration. It takes talent to appear good without being so, damn what Plato said, and I wish I could pretend to care about the excessive acclaim people place on their trivial and self made problems.

“It’s been a hard week. A lot’s been going on,”

Be kind, I’ve heard it said, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

“I’ve been drinking too much and trying to figure this out. I didn’t want anybody to see me like this.”

But some fights weigh heavier than others. Try whining about your boss or cell phone coverage and see how much Atlas shrugs.

“He destroyed my whole apartment, Noel.”

The way she says my name is devastating, leaves me aching and reaching for her like that first cigarette after work. I’ve read that saying a persons name for emphasis is a social trick, how we’re conditioned to turn our heads and attention, listen closely to whoever utters it. Who must obviously know and acknowledge us, and by extension, deserves the same.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked. How are you?”

I’ve never been a fan of emotional cons, and I know all about Pavlov’s dogs. Lucky for me, I’ve always been more of a cat person. You might say my name a hundred times but I won’t so much as look at you until I absolutely feel like it.

“My aunt died but I couldn’t make it to the funeral, and I can’t figure out if I should quit my job or not. Shrug life, I guess.” I said, because comedic deflection is kind of my specialty.

She pauses on the phone and makes an audible sigh, a sign that she’s internalizing what’s been presented. The next words out of her mouth I know are I’m-So-Sorry, but, I wonder, is she really? Staring at the door frame he’s torn down for the fourth time. Her mind racing to make excuses and justifications I won’t bother to pay much mind to.

“Its been hard for both of us,” Is all she said. “How are we going to get over it.”

And in the background I hear a click of a mousepad, and I imagine its probably for the number to the locksmith she always forgets.

I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling.

To be between her and a failing marriage is a place I’m all but unfamiliar to. My All-Or-Nothing is something of a gift and a curse that way. How many relationship hang ups have I profited of? How many times have I felt the thighs of disatisfied army wives only looking for a shoulder and bit of understanding? Enough for me to realize I am no Casanova or protagonist, but a short escape for those with nothing to lose, twisted hearts, and a bit of time on their hands.

“I guess we’ll figure it out, Kate.” I said.

Because who doesn’t love a game of cat and mouse.

 

‘Til Death Do Us Part’ Sounds Like Less Like A Promise and More Like A Threat

“I just had a shower that was wonderful,” Karina said. “But there’s something in the air that troubles me. This feeling that, tonight, there’s something a little off about you. A thought that’s invasive and makes you act this way. It sounds like…crickets from my window, and it’s not alarming, but it’s there.”

How had she learned my moods so quickly? There’s always a silence in me that’s not so quiet nor my own- full of crickets, left-over sentiments, bubble-gummed sidewalks and marooned moonlight. The phantoms and faceless anxieties I am perpetually facing are nameless, despite the labels and disordered name-tags; are large as the clouds and just as vague, hard to pin into anything so definitive and limiting as a sentence. Tonight’s specters are Friendship, A Sense of Belonging, Suffering and The Much Less Fortunate. With a special guest performance by Empathy & Minutiae. Analyzing the underlying message beneath the most complex social cues and feintest text just saying ‘hey’.

“Call me when you have the chance. I have something to tell you later, even if it means we’ll never speak again.”

I like to over-think because emotions are so unreliable and sticky: like children’s hands at birthday parties. Reason makes much more sense and I love to overanalyze a feeling, but I’m a sucker for attention. Give me the slightest piñata string of affection, and I can get more than just a little hung up on being the helpless one in a relationship.  And being the self-bruting masochist that I am, a part of me quite enjoys it. I already know Karina has to confess that she is already in a relationship, but I’ll not let misery have me this time. And rage can exit stage fuck-off, because I already know from all those tires that I’ve kicked that it’s impotent. That nothing ever comes from it.

My mother once told me life is much like a chain- that we are smithed and molded to fit one another like the links on a fence.  She meant it in a very old and semi-Catholic way: a butterfly effect that says what each of us are, at birth, is inherent- and thus what we are will inevitably attract only a certain type of person. A personality that connects. I never believed her, but if this was true, my maker must have made me as the ideal third for cucks.

“Is this because I forgot your birthday?” I said, because strings of the heart were made for tugging. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen, I’ve gotten too comfortable with you. We’ve only just recently met but for some reason it feels like we’ve known each other for so much longer. As if this was something we always did.”

Only women of a certain disposition find my demeanor type appealing – and whether they were bored, out of love, desperate for attention or a despot, I couldn’t say. And even if I could, it wouldn’t be my place to judge.

“That made my heart sigh,” Her text said. “How do you phrase what I want to say not knowing that I want to say it?”

Because I love you, and my endings are written clear across the chain-link.

 

Father-

Your days weigh more than the family around your neck.
Nine months and nine pounds without your voice or hand,
my mother called, and you said: “Give Him My Name, Noel.”
And she abided, faithfully, by the promises made
that warm May night. But years proved these words,
like so many other parts of you,
were broken, and so I am yours
in name only.

I haven’t your dark eyes, fair skin or welcome wiles.
That cooing air of arrogance
in your smile, or the graceful way your beard
rises and settles into a dignified chin.
Your daughters are your spitting image,
shorter and effeminate, but telling tales
of their ancestry by the nines
of their soft and thoughtfully thin
eyes, a wild nose above cupid bow lips.

I am not like them;
every camera and mirror whispers,
how my genes have aborted you.
And yet strangers say the strangest things-
like that I am most your son when I look most annoyed.
Something in the nothing of demeanor
makes me summon your image to men and women
that have known you. The passive opening and closing of a fist.
In a folded leg, an unconsciously tapping foot,
staring into the distance with a cigarette dangling from my lip.
All of these acts I thought my self are borrowed,
are not my own, are ghostly references to a man
this man
who grew up growing you
says are bestowed;
are reflections of the seed
being strong.

But…how?

My first razor was from the deli man,
his eyes lost when I asked him how to do it,
until he could understand that I was young and
that I needed. My first day of school was Johanna
ironing clothes, running me over with a lint brush,
combing my hair and reminding me
no girl likes a boy who sucks his thumbs.
Sex came from a box, a secret, a word of mouth
passed along the boys and bus rides.
Shared and studied in the dim blue tint of monitors
and television screens when nobody could see us
in our vile innocence. YouTube learned me
with tutorials, my first suit from my first check
a baggy thing. Green shirt, black tie, but
from your few visits I’d already known
how to make a knot
having been left in one.

Yet I am most your son when I look most annoyed.
The passive opening and closing of a fist. A folded leg.
An unconsciously tapping foot. Staring into the distance
with a cigarette dangling from my lip.

And I wonder, can character carry in a vein?
Have I shed and denied your look but not your scowl?
Am I as doomed as you are, to the rum on my breath
and vagabonding with the boys on Tuesday night’s
rather than with my family home? Father,
our days are numbered like the calendar
and when I’m fugitive to a feeling;
waxing gibbons and poetics at the moon,
I’m tempted to think my temperament is nothing
more than an heirloom. Is a remnant of you
in the recesses of my blood,
and I’m tempted to take a razor and gut you out.

But there is no salvation in suffering your self;
it’s best to leave that to the masochist.

Instead I’ll wear your name proudly,
but like a cautionary tale.
Instead I’ll learn to love
better than how you’ve taught me.

Well.