It's funny, or something like funny. This discovery; finding that I no longer care. They are the last men standing, these two women. One who once loved me and one I never believed capable of love. I heard them talking to one another in voices gone hoarse with exhaustion and rage and decades of slow-burning tar. But their voices are distant, the words growing farther and fainter. I know I heard one of them say, "The Laughing Whore," and that was funny, too. Because I realized that I wasn't panicking when I heard it, and that was when I realized how tired I'd become. Don't know, in all honesty, I've ever felt more tired than I feel right now.

I try to flip my wrist, in a gesture of gentle frustration and fatigue, to indicate my current state, but the muscles don't respond to my wishes any more. Catching up with God, I suppose, on that front. I feel my one arm pulling closer to me, spreading a slow blood angel across the floor. Sketching my own ghost.

I feel my lips pull back over my teeth, just a bit. One more smile for the crowd.

This is going to be one hell of a getaway, I decide. When I walk away from this, they're going to say: how did he..? And I'll just give them that look I have — the one that says I know something you don't. The men will hate me for that look, but the women... they always find their way through that lure to the shiny hook.

Charlie deserves better, anyway. We both know it. That letter... it seems funny, now, that I carried it for so long. Reminding myself of what I'd lost. What we'd lost. Reminding myself of how it felt to feel capable of something more.

This will all make sense, later. When the air doesn't feel so thick on my tongue. When the weight of these words no longer ties me down. After I rest, for a bit. This will all make sense.

Comments

[cIII]

Dude. I liked this very much. Who knew Slick was such a hard ass?

[foradifferentkindofgirl (fadkog)]

Blood angels are bad ass. I also appreciate that I don't have to get all bundled up and freeze my ass off to make them.

Oh, yes. I make them.

Not really. I just want to sound cool. I'm so not cool. This, however, is.

[Susan (Trout Towers)]

Oh, hello inside of Slick's head! Lovely to see you.

You people are making me very sad this story is ending.

[ms picket to you]

OH GAWD. He's not thinking anymore after that.

TWO KILLED HIM.

LONG LIVE TWO.

(also: damn poetry you write makes me think better.. and re-think: can I ever do that? crap.)

"Sketching my own ghost"?

Let's start a rock band pronto. Better money in it.