Soap Box Opera

Look at us sweetheart, you’re sandwiched between a new pair of arms and I’m in the kitchen cooking you two up bacon and stories. Let me tell you a new one sweetheart, wait, can I still call you that? It doesn’t matter now, I’ve already done it and you can’t take it back,  but here, I’m feeling generous, take it, put it under your pillow and see which one of your friends comes at night for it and crawls into bed with you, tells you you’re beautiful and leaves your broken in the morning.  Sometimes I feel you can hear what I’m thinking, and when you listen you wish you couldn’t. You’re falling apart at the seams. You’re looking for everyone who isn’t me. I blame myself for all of this because I’m vain, because I like being the martyr, because they say Saint Sebastian took credit for every arrow that broke his skin. I’m sorry sweetheart. That’s what I’m saying, but you know I confuse sincerity with the sound of my own voice. For the record though, sorry for saying these things,  sorry for calling so late, sorry for thinking I could rewrite history with a bic on the back of a receipt. You remember that old story: four score and seven minutes ago you left me bruised and bleeding forget-me-nots and I thought I could change it through trail and error, shock and awe, but we know I’m no mountain mover. I said there was a new story somewhere in here sweetheart and I guess I lied, its just the same one I’ve been telling but with more car crashes and explosions, dramatic pauses and slow motion. If this new pair of arms is so great though, let them write a better one, I can lend a bic and the back of a recepit. We’ve all seen the words they leave you, what some would call love notes, but it’s just daytime drama at best, cracker jack copy at worst. But hey, who I am to judge? Look at me sweetheart, I can’t even write you a new story. You’re a needle skip in a record I can’t forget.

Advertisement