The first man I loved died last night on 270 in a quiet display of the cold guardrail’s apathy. When I went to look, there was nothing to see, no last minute note that he just wrote for me – only the scrap metal left on the shoulder, twisted and ugly, passerbys go slower and crane their taut necks to look at the scene that shouldn’t be theirs or happen to me.

The first man I loved’s hands smelled like blood. His sweat was like violence and his screams were like love, locking me out in the cold from his car, calling me drunk with his friends at a bar.

(He was whispering, “baby, baby, oh baby.” He was crying a little, and we were laying in his shuttered room which smelled like stale clothes. The first man I loved made damn sure to show a hint of emotion after raising fists. There’s a song about this. It felt like a kiss.)

The first man I loved died two days ago and he still gives me shivers when I take that road (only when I’m late, it’s all I can take). Passerbys slow, crane their taut necks and wait for some small satisfaction in knowing they weren’t in any way tied to the ones who got hurt.


~ by perfectionatrix on January 13, 2010.

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