I’ve got my ex husband on line one,
asking if things can be fixed,
and I tap my pen against the oak of my desk,
making a wish as I watch my phone shuffle through songs by starry eyed girls who saw things that my eyes aren’t capable of conceiving.
I wish that I was a mother.
He asks for me back but he couldn’t give me that,
and after I gave him everything and gave nothing to my own desires, I am…
…damn irritated, honestly.
He doesn’t want me.
He wants a good wife who cooks him hearty meals and cries just as he’s about to come, because he’s into that, because he’s watched too much porn,
and I’ve been too far gone for far too long to pretend properly anymore.
It doesn’t have to be me, specifically,
but I’m around, so he’s around too,
asking what I’ll do without him,
a bicycle salesman at the bottom of the ocean.
My mindless obedience is romanticised in his memories,
and he calls,
not for me,
but for the dream that I was when he was losing his mind beneath the covers,
committing crimes to a girl who would never tell,
unless she had a record to sell,
in which case,
it encased her sweet throat,
a rosy, righteous melody that made you shudder if you listened loud enough to truly understand,
but nobody ever does these days.
On line two is the last shred of my sanity,
and I’m sorry,
but I think I’m hanging up on everyone.