Hurts

Next time she'll fall in love in Spanish, my friend is fond of saying. Fucking love; fuck love, I'm fond of saying. Sweat and meat and call me Disco Stu- I'll get through. Not love.

My little girl can have all that of me- that pride and pain, breath held high inside your throat- that shitty gravel dragout and that box of flares. She'll break my heart enough for thirty women; This I already know.

I'll be careful of the hearts I play with; but that ain't true either.

And I spoke to Jen today, in digitalia, and out fell my stomach, right through my asshole, Gawd, bingo in utero, DiscoBalled me Crunch like thirty pounds of broken mirrored Whump right between my clavicle and collarbones, and I am full of shit. Just full of it, and sitting comfortably on top and telling Kan: Fuck Love.

She's getting married, I think, and all these six years have been a balance on that skein above my torso full of winding shit, riding out the wave and grinning at my angry wife. I crushed up a bit and wrote to her-

I wish you happiness like burst plums and honey, Jen.

I'll always wish I'd been man enough to keep you.

Forgive me- I know this is just weight between us- so, I wish you happiness from every pit within me.

You ever think back on how bad you treated someone? Maybe you don't. I've treated a lot of people bad, I guess. I treated that lil' orchid like a compost heap, and slept with my head between her breasts and huffed the good out of her and left my stringy black footprints in her linen sheets. She watched, and learned, and broke my heart back, after a time.

And thats all I ever think of, is What SHE done, right? That scandalous boney bitch, that BITCH.

How could she? Well, fuck. I would've ruined her right well, had our seats been reversed. Would have blown her away.

Just don't have daughters, men. It fucks the real right out of your life. You're left holding what someone like you will do to her, one day.

If I was not so proud, I'd pray.