All tagged Star-crossed Lovers
I say, You are a very dangerous man, and he nods and says, It’s true. I am.
I say, Only you can’t be that dangerous, because you wear that cap. And you have eyeliner dripping down your face like black tears and your jeans are so ripped it looks as if your legs are sharp. And if you were a dangerous man, you would attempt to look less dangerous, in order to better do dangerous things.
Death by a thousand cuts, the headlines read. Seventeen slashes with a paring knife. Your wife tried to carve the truth from you. But I’m the guilty one. I’m the one that dreamed of all the ways to lose you so that you could never find me.
Do you even know how the tops of my feet are the best place you could probably touch me but the bottoms, the worst? You’ll never know about my feet.
When he tells me to stop, I stop. When he tells me to leave, I leave. The blanket on my bed he likes is a blue shell, and he drapes it over his shoulders, a cape, a protection, a soft hard skin, and the late spring leaves glaze the window, outside but never in, the way Colin wants, and if he tells me to want, I want.
a) Ray up and hits me because I said the bad thing about his girl. As I’m passing out, Ray catches me by the leather lapels and lowers me tenderly to the sticky floor. Basically he tucks me in.
With a strip of clear Scotch tape the woman attaches, to the already fading scar running the pale length of her forearm, a small paper calendar from the year 1980, rolled up like a joint so the dates are not visible.
You fell in love with a ghost. That was your first mistake; your second mistake was falling in love with the ghost of a speed-addicted serial killer.
When my wife and I separated, we decided to split the dog half-n-half. Lengthwise, so each of us could enjoy at least half his little face, and have only half as much shit to deal with.
There is a photograph your father used to keep in his wallet of you standing next to a dead deer. Or, I suppose, it wasn’t really simply dead as much as it was mutilated: gutted out and just a skin hanging upside down, swaying back and forth like a piñata.
The cup. I see it now: white, made of paper, steaming. I’m eager, for some reason, to get to the bottom of it. To empty it, despite the heat of its contents, as quickly as I can.
There’s a secret at the bottom.
We didn’t know at first that the world was falling apart. We thought maybe it was just us. We had just moved into a new house.