A graphic micro-novella for mature readers.
Tag: addiction
got me with the say to me
A poem.
Lord help me
to stop being so creepy.
is it the porn, God? i’ve tried,
i really have. well, you’ve watched me,
you’ve seen!
now i skip Kelly Madison’s hubby’s tomfoolery for something less mean –
not that Japanese aphrodisiac massage isn’t plenty obscene.
it’s easy to say it’s hard to be me
cause no one else i know has lived the life i lead
except the successful ones on the front covers of magazines
who overcame their bullshit before they were twenty –
harder still to be the me i want to be,
when what i’ve been through is a terrible tragedy.
sounds like more whining & complaining to me!
let it go
A short story.
“A widower takes audacious measures to overcome his personal guilt over his partner’s death.”
“Did she make you cry
– “Gold Dust Woman” by Stevie Nicks
Make you break down
And shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
Pick up the pieces and go home.”
*
That night, Trevor watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and the next morning he called-in sick to work. Rachel Brosnahan. She looked just like her, only without the blond hair. He had watched the season from the beginning, and it was funny and painful in equal measure. And then there was the flashback, to when Midge did have blond hair, and it was like he was instantly-transported to his past. He couldn’t even pay attention to the show: he was so transfixed by this celebrity, this actress, out of his reach; a candle to his former flame. An imitation. As the show played, he reclined further in to the couch with his bottle of Wiser’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched his glass but he knew he was too-far-gone to reach for it now. From bottle to glass. He took a swig and let the TV carry on while his eyes darted around his living room of their own accord, looking for anything to rest on that wasn’t her. Why was he still watching? Because it was like a photograph he never took. A post he never saved. She was an idea, and then Rachel made her real again. It was coming up on ten years since Liz had died and try as he may there wasn’t any way to get around it. To relax. To take his mind off of her. Elizabeth Greer. Every show he turned to seemed to be a love story. His coffee table was strewn with artifacts from a life he knew before: trinkets from other girls that stood testament to missed opportunities; books he had stopped reading who knows how long ago, when his memory began its deadly choke-hold. That was the only way he was able to remember her now; her face, her manner: through the eyes of people paid to mock him and his affliction, as far as he was concerned. Rachel was beautiful in her own way but paled in comparison to Liz.
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