she was sick.

she was sick, her skin xanthous with a love of pill and drink. her hands were always full and her eyes were always empty, her stomach growling and her face tired. in time her simulacrum became argentine, inebriation the feminine version of king midas; her touch became frigorific, like when night falls after a pure winter snow. even my bones were cold and ached when she glanced in my direction.
she gave an extemporaneous speech about how much she loves me, but all i could do was look away and muster a lie.

her volitale mood.

her volatile mood made her a time bomb ticking the seconds until the new year. one last kiss means one last miss for the home team and i am talking pell-mell about her delight in my misfortune. has it been this long and only these shards of sentences can roll off my tongue? i can't.. why would? what time is it?
a medley of terrible feelings lie solely in my solar plexus. she belied and belittled me. could such a torturous time be so ephemeral in the span of a lifetime? a lifetime i lived in pain alone and decreed to never feel so low again. sidereal circumstances leading to a barathrum of hate and hurt.
ring in the new year, bring in the new year.

across the table.

across the table, his face was grim; she became tacit in posture, belittled while words were withheld. she could smell the sin upon him, buried deep under his nails, nails that could ruin a chalkboard and a set of ears in one fell swoop.
trepid og tempting his anger, she chewed in deliberate numbers: counting the times her teeth ground her food, counting the breaths between bites, counting the gulps of wine, counting on the continuance of time to save her.
he knew she knew.
the sacrilege performed against their vows of marriage, their once devoted love gone to a whore who posed too great of a burden on the simulacrum of a once beautiful note, gone sour in the sustain and resonating only of contempt.
she refused to meander through the events seriatim that their now decayed relationship had suffered. she had suffered enough and one meal was the only event she had to keep breathing through, although to-morrow would be no different.
she wondered what the legal severance of a legal institution would look like in the eyes of god; wondered if god even existed to allow such a tumultuous affair in to both of their lives. his spirit of eminence would be the reason for not sigining the papers in the future, and she would once again fall to obey in his household of tyranny.
rising from the dinner table, he incisively stated, "i'm leaving."
in simply refusing to recuse, as a smaller woman may have done, she sensed the vicissitude of his nature; a chance to escape.

you'll be happy.

you'll be happy to hear that everything has fallen or is falling apart. while the world still turns, rotating the same axis as always, the children are weeping and the hospitals churn out more screaming and bleeding than sex can coerce. the sound becomes a presage of the current state of affairs and the affair you're carrying on the next state over will be abandoned once she tells you that she's happily married and has been for years.
you'll ramble about love but i'll tell you that you are just a toy, always have been and always will be. on a string, you dance; with the push of a button, you will sing. every song ever written about a broken heart comes from your throat and pushes past your tongue, teeth, and lips. you've become such a gudgeon of sorts, believing left and right that love is just under your nose and all you have to do is stop and smell the roses.
well, as the adage goes, the roses smell like shit around this neck of the woods and what goes around comes around.

sweat turned cold.

sweat turn cold quickly on your body. the shivers meander from your neck to the base of your spine in intricate pulses, each as unique as a snowflake. as any good song-write, you tope your night and days away in hopes to grow old fast. the more experience you have the more qualified you become and the experience you've gained fails to become your fragile simulacrum.
the amorphous music warrants its own cult following and it is you who follow, not your family or friends or fans. the way she draps you around by the holes of your nose is disgusting but the back beat drums into one's heart the way a stake drives a nail. you're cognizant of this action and you let her abuse her like no other has abused you before.
the stodgy way the guitar waves through the room drugs the room's inhabitants and anyone within too close of a radius. they become the walking dead; the minions of her hierarchy of pugnacious drunkenness, her alcohol-induced halitosis upon your neck and her claws digging in to your back, tearing you apart in a piecemeal fashion.

heavy her breathing.

heavy her breathing, her indefatigable excitement carried her on tired wings into christmas morning. she couldn't imagine chanukah, eight whole days and nights of holding her breath, waiting to feel her eyes light up and waiting to see the light in other's eyes.
the cheer didn't come this year because the light failed to prevail in the eyes of another, a lover. he was a scapegrace of a boy who knew no love and could never learn to return the favor of her affection. his narcissism lead to a disease of the mind that no pill or doctor, no love, could cure. she spent her days grasping at the curtains, screaming at the light.
the stentorian sound of his own self-praise made him deaf in the right ear, but she never sat on the left and therefore couldn't whisper sweet nothings into his funtioning left ear.
she spent her time sullen and alone with a boy who grew into a man and still loved no one but himself. and so her days went and so her days always will be.

i was living.

i was living by the macrobiotic law and i ended up eating my heart out.
the relevance of law comes in to question, videlicet, how does one devour something so vital to be dubbed vital to the body? the body knows no pain like the heart and mind suffer. i lose no sleep nor do i shed any tears for what i may have lost.
the gruff voice given from a heart in a throat meets no bass, a voice so low the baristas believe i've been smoking since conception, maybe.
my barmy lifesytle pleases their after hours taste, the taste of double shots in one glass and energy in eight ounces.