The Tapestry Weaver

In June 1940, or maybe this morning, there was a quiet Tuesday when it wasn’t storming on me for a change, though the newspapers say that somewhere in Spain it is pouring. But my days don’t rain. It’s dry where I lay. Dry enough to give my shut self away: if you truly are out there, if you truly exist, it’s not fucking fair to make me wait like this. I will keep my room sterile until you arrive – still wet with a hint of the smell of a guy who is no doubt too waiting for you to return, a small boy like me who will probably not learn the horrible, awful, despicable truth: sometimes you truly are destined to lose and no matter how many times she does your seatbelt or whatever naked bedroom emotion you felt – none of it matters and you cannot win. The odds are sadly too slight and too thin. But I will greet her with a smile and pretend she needs me like I love her, sweat and splendor covered, Sylvia in oven, Sid Vicious and lover.

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~ by perfectionatrix on January 19, 2010.

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