By Aimée Keeble
This is a confessional- blue and yellow, cheap and uncheerful. I’ve worn myself dull.
This is an acknowledgement of things ruined:
Hi! I wrote a few thoughts down on things that didn’t matter- bits of receipt paper (I found the one from CVS when you bought me a Plan B pill! Congrats on the new baby btw!), the back of my hand; I wrote a note and fit it between two exposed bricks on the market side of the cafe I work in. It said ‘I love you’ and I was writing for the defunct and the finished. And perhaps for a Serendipity (which is pink and has flippers and giant cow lashes, remember??)
Nah, you were too young to remember that book, eight years too young I reckon. That’s probably the reason we aren’t together- you are culturally premature and won’t remember the music video to Bullet with Butterfly Wings. You’re such a boring cunt.
BUT before there is any sympathy squeaked out for you between all this heavy, loaded vaginal slick moon mad monster crunching the impotent metal of a little gun ding dong let me say this very slowly for those at the front:
You said ‘I’ll kill myself!’
Okay okay! Because I’ve got a sloppy heart like an old butcher’s cut forgotten in the fridge drawer- I stayed! And forgave you for an armful of slippery lies that I didn’t ask for and I think you cheated on me with whatsherface, the plain faced country girl whose mother works in town…they’re both as ridiculous as miniature goats. I even bought a dog with you!
Let me just quickly pleasure myself with this particularly rousing memory: four weeks from that woeful moment when you wept on the concrete outside your apartment complex and that racist from next door asked if you were alright and I had to explain why it looked strange when you crouched underneath the stairwell to weep some more-
Your guts were so horrifically anaemic! You said ‘of course I’m alright, calm down (during the Christmas market, outside my place of work! I was just trying to enjoy my beer and holiday hot dog!) And then later told that girl who is seventeen you wanted to dump me and did she want to lie down somewhere with you?
I wanted to tell you this but was too enraged at the time:
These are the things I wish I had taken from our apartment:
1. That framed poster from the Seattle Aquarium with the rainbow sharks on it.
2. That orange blanket Devin gave to me before she moved to Canada.
3. My travel mug. The one I always put your tea in when you were sick.
4. Your old wolf T-shirt. You’re far too fat for it.
5. The polariods of me. Not you.
6. The mug I bought for you from the Good Will because it has a cartoon on it of a girl and a boy and a dog surrounded by hearts.
7. All the ridiculous tears that have since dried on the imitation wood floor.
8. I’d love to swallow back and incubate all the bloodless orgasms that limped from me under your stupid hands, save them for someone better- a marauding alien or a woman maybe.
There was one time, probably at an irrelevant hour of the night, that I felt you against my back and my veins were rocking- I was literally thrilling with love- and I thought: if this person goes, I want to go with them, wherever that may be.
Just so you know.