why?

all the love in the world? on a silver platter, i'm sure.

please simply starve me of affection if this is all the love in the world lock me away until my eyes are small dry jaundiced saffron spheres until i can play a sweet lonesome melody on my cracked ribcage until my heart whithers and beats no louder than a butterfly's wings for one more taste of all that love is no more than poison on my tongue.




he says i'm miserable here but that place is often here nor there.

myer's law.

i sit watching her, her coarse brown hair too mousey even for a rodent. she is in her mid forties, but probably only aged about 38 years. as her dead eyes roll in and out of her head, tongue lolling from a mouth too large atop a scrawny neck, she mumbles, lips loose around half a set of yellowed teeth, speaking incoherently with her face aimed down behind tightly interlaced fingers.

she tells us over and over about her career, counting the years she's done this, done that, spent getting a higher degree that for whatever reason, it quickly becomes apparent, she will never obtain. she mentions her wedding band at least three times, as if to assert that yes, a man did indeed want her at one time.

does she have children? does she have cats? or dogs? cats, definitely, i can see her talking to them like babies, most likely swarming around her when she gets home at night anticipating the clink of a full food dish on the tile floor.

perhaps it is linoleum.

and then, exhausted, she falls into a worn brown recliner - the one with the wood paneling tracing the front of the armrests and a special satchel of sorts for the remote control.

lesson #2:

you get what you pay for.