rage 

Hallowed words. Paying absolutely no mind to anything other than a paycheck. 

Conversation, one-handed driving, and a handshake to god. 

As I pass over the bridge in the break of dawn, the buck stares me down.  

Giggling on the phone. Riding some attraction to one another to the very edge, 

two lost girls and one lost boy mixed up in some giant equation. 

These words are haunting and I’d rather not blow them out into existence. 

“______ , this is a little unwarranted, I'm sorry. It's been a bit since we talked. I was thinking about church and everything a few months ago. I know you hate sappy, so I'll try to keep it short. I chose to leave early, not much keeping me here. but I wanted to say thank you.

I know it's all probably strange hearing this, but you taught me a lot about morality. being good. being original. it's been on my mind. I hope you and the family are well.”

I wrote under a full moon that night, four years ago, to a woman I’d never expected to hear from again. 

She writes,

“Good to know you didn’t actually regret ever meeting me.”

“You made me think everyone around me felt the same as you did and I wasn’t good enough to be anyone’s friend and that my “pretty face” covered an awful personality, but from that I learned to be more independent and reserved with who I consider to be a friend. It’s good that one of us benefited in the end and I wish you luck with your writing, bass, and California dreams.”

“Have fun Doc”

Anyways. Heartache and mistakes can be acknowledged. 

I’d like to win, or be in some sort of world where it all never happened. When leaves would tumble through the streets en masse and pumpkins glow on porches. When I’d roll up on your street in the cover of darkness and be up to no good with you. 

The wind howls as I vicariously envy the multidimensional me who made it with you. I can hear the rain, the sun, the orange and yellow of today that would introduce us to a future of any possibility.

The scary, ghastly part of it all is that I hear this wind and the wind-up box behind my ears, as I see you, but not you, before my eyes. In front of this writing, in front of the backdrop of the city. 

None of it will ever be true. 

And my reality is lonely and white. 

But beyond that, the steccato walls and the damn wind brush the drapes above wood paneled floors from the sixties. 

It’s all real somewhere else. I can feel it. 

So I choose to hate you because of the real circumstances. And the other one that didn't work out. And the next one. Maybe even the one before that. 

When I never answered your calls, when I called you a fat-whore-pig, and I left you for some other dim-witted woman. When I took utter advantage of your emotions and watched you from the train window of life passing you gone. 

I choose to spit at you in my mind. Watch you rot in homelessness on the sides of my streets. Watch you rot in a grave from an amalgamation of pill usage and party lifestyle. As I curse you from my bedroom. Because damnation is what you deserve.

So beg me if this makes sense to you?

 Let me please hate you for never giving me a third chance in our reality today and let me dance with you with lipstick and leather in some reality far away, tomorrow.