a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
A little education is a dangerous thing, she wrote. Instead of saying the dismal necessity of self-preservation pushes me to run as fast as my legs will allow I can say the lugubrious exigency of this unreciprocated passion compelled me onwards hopeful that by the time you dig out a thesaurus to parse together my meaning I will be far enough that his domineering and your acquiescence can no longer fill me to the brim with unspoken, unspeakable pain. The wet spots on the letter were tears or so I imagined reading her letter over and over as though the mere act of reading could conjure her into life could banish the shadows that tightened the noose around the fragile summer-scented skin I buried my face in one enchanted evening of tequila shots and gleaming white lines where she said, “I love you,” and I said, “I know,” accepting as my due her full-fledged adoration. Ironic that she is the only person who would appreciate the gallows humor. “Such an unusual method for a woman,” the responding officer said. But she would never have dabbled with pills or razors when neater methods exist. He sounded almost admiring at how well the scene was set before turning briskly professional snatching your words from my hands without a by-your-leave. I did protest then stringing together incoherent words that meant “no, you can’t take that from me, it’s mine” which were properly ignored. “This is evidence, miss,” a kindly young tech said attempting to make up for the brusqueness of his senior officer. “We need to get it to the lab.” I was hustled out of the room like an unwelcome guest to be interviewed at leisure when the detective work was done. Evidence of a disturbed mind most would say but I knew for what it was: a grandiose declaration of love. |