A Pane in the Glass

Karen got big into window sex. She started small-time, Honda backseats and neighbors’ decks. But soon it had to be in front of windows, I guess. So really you can’t blame her and yeah, I tried my best to save her – baptized her in Purell, toweled her off and renamed her – but the lady ’til the end, the famous body in the bed, queen of remember-when-you-said is probably happy. I bet she’s happy being dead..

I’m not even sure what it says that even gone she made me jealous, thinking great moments like this should not make me feel aimless. She probably wrote my purpose in a beat-up spiral notebook, being packed with plastic trophies and the worthless things she owes me: keychain photos, half torn tickets, her I think great-grandmother’s bracelet, maybe a goddamn explanation for where I should be going.

But I am such a slow thing. I am such a, such a slow thing that I can’t pick myself from a lineup of photos with her in my places and people I don’t know but somewhere she wrote down instructions. I know she lay in that claustrophobic dark blue room where we worked hard to extinguish the holy flame god gave us. And if I keep thinking of her, it’s the same – no one saved us.


~ by perfectionatrix on January 17, 2010.

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