Black Habits

Bad habits multiply like rabbits pulled from black hats and ziplocked baggies. Text messages cite prime locations – parking lots of closed gas stations. I throw in an extra twenty so I’ll be given a complimentary g.5 and then I drive to pick you up; you wait outside. You point the house out where you say a husband killed his wife today. Yellow caution wraps the rail. I wonder if they’ve set the bail. We don’t wear seatbelts and smell like gin. You see your mother’s church and cringe and tell me that you saw my twin while grocery shopping yesterday. His hair was longer – but anyway –

I could be upstanding if my friends would do the same. But intentions and excitement flow like light through window panes and we are low and getting lower. We weren’t always quite this pale. You are sleeping on my shoulder, dreaming of fathers that failed to give you proper interaction or encouragement or praise. It is dark in this room because we never lift the shades.

~ by perfectionatrix on January 18, 2011.

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