I don’t know what to say to you. Sometimes I think if I say anything, you’ll walk out, on me, on us, on this shitty piece of life we carved out for ourselves.
I sit here on this stoop and listen to the cicadas scream in the trees, and I pull on a cigarette. I feel the little sharp edges of concrete push like ice chips into my skin where my cut-offs end. I look at a sky as washed out and hot a blue as I’m feeling right now, and taste the smoke crawl across my tongue and feel the thick air slide across my skin.
I wonder why it’s up to you, always to end the conversation, and why you slam the door on any chance I have of apology or endearment. And I think that’s just the way men are. Men slam things, doors or fists, it makes no fucking difference.
I think if you’d stayed today, if you’d pulled your head out of your ass for a half a second, I’d have told you about it. The baby. I reckon you could have still slammed the door, but at least you’d slam it with the whole story. But since you didn’t, I’ll smoke this last cigarette, because I can only deal with one fucking thing at a time and I’ll hold what’s ours by myself. Then I’ll go put on my blue smock with the yellow smiley face button that makes you think if you shop with us, you’ll be happy, and I’ll go to work with this burden, and the burden of our future to bear on my own.
I stub it out on the stoop beside me, and look at the charcoal smudge it leaves. I play with it, the smudge, try to make it look like something, but there’s not enough of it. It looks like a blob. It looks like what the thing inside me probably looks like. You put it there. But I suppose your problems are bigger than mine.
Sometimes I wonder why I keep on loving you. Since junior high, following you around like a goddamn lovesick puppy.
And I know, the second you open that door again, I’ll be right back to heel. I reckon I’m the one with my head up my ass.