I need help.
I tear through her journal like a crazed ex-husband who just got out of prison. With 39 love letters sealed with her tongue in his suitcase and a 40 oz. of Old Milwaukee he rampages through her drawers, her closets, even taps the ground for loose floorboards, searching out of paranoia. He was left alone on that gray cement too long. He grew strong and prepared himself for the worst, lost all hope for the best. That man and I could use a coffee right now, and reassurance from the liberals that all humans are good, deep down. I only see cleptomaniacs. Waiting to steal all of the fizz in my chest that gurgles up and sometimes makes me want to puke up so many cheesy greeting card lines that are so over used. But suddenly I can see the writers behind them and the hands of the wifes and husbands holding those very cards. I feel the cracking of the lips when she smiles at the man she never stops loving, even when she doesn’t want to anymore. I feel the pressure of his eyes, when he holds back the tears in front of his grandchildren. Trying to look away from her, knowing that she is his trigger to a sweet suicide. I feel the sweetness of that kind of passion, but it will never reach my lips, I fear. Give me a greeting card, and I’ll analyze it’s prints. Wondering where this card has been, why it smells like another woman’s perfume. Some call it strength to put up such a thick wall. I call it self destruction. How much does it take to convince myself it’s okay?