Tuesday, July 30, 2013
from The American Book of the Dead
I think it was the moment he told me I reminded him of his sister. I think it was right then and there that my heart blew up in my chest and time stopped so I could properly shower Times Square with the millions and millions of my tiny heart shards. It was something trivial. And I know that. But it didn’t really come in like a lamb, or sneak up on me in the night, waiting around for my eyes to adjust to the dark. No. Just sort of…attacked. It attacked me. It was a realization of my love not being the right love that he needed, and that my love was a love that made him feel like playing video games and chasing each other with boogers. I am boogers to him. And not a beautiful and intricate sonata…not a poetic taste of possibility…nothing. Just boogers. And so inside me grew a bomb, very abruptly because there was no time to make it complex, and it expanded and then exploded from behind my skin, and it ruined every single part of the white t-shirt I was wearing. Stained it red. Obviously.