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My Nameless

I know you showed up that day in your always gleaming car with the cherry red and night tint windows. I know you lied when you said it wouldn’t start the night before; it was your deus ex machina, so you wouldn’t have to see me again. So I wouldn’t have to lie about lying and loving in that old self-deceptive tirade that never failed to fool us both. You caved regardless and decided last minute that this time would be like the past two times. You’d show up and fatten my ego and spin me into a delirium with the pleading and the stunning meaninglessness of “I just know it’ll work. You’re already giving up without even trying. I don’t see what the problem is.” All the while shaking with a fear that isn’t you, but that bedfellow fear that you stroke in your pocket corner because you’ve become too familiar and too cordial with it to kill it. I know the meaning of the three exclamation marks at the end of your text at nine in the morning all smiles and sunshine; you were there. It was supposed to be a surprise. I read into the hazy spaces between the letters and found you hiding there playing your one-man game.

            I don’t know if you waited half an hour or two, but you must have felt it. The exhaustion that followed the realization that there was nothing to wait for. You must have known it then, that I could never come back to you because I was never there at all. I saw your car parked a few feet away from the boulders where I took you and all the others in. You and your one-man games.

            I love to say I told you so. Why did you have to make it so much harder on everyone involved? I say everyone because I brought ghosts with me- ones you weren’t sensible enough to feel sliding beneath your palms between the skins keeping a cool, safe buffer between us. They weren’t ghosts who needed sheets to give form; they were ghosts to you, but livewire bodies to me. Full of blood and bluff and pounds of solid flesh. Anyway, I told you so: the whole thing was a lost cause from the beginning. Your friends were right: I blood sucked and I leeched and I took and I took and I took, but you wouldn’t stop giving. Wouldn’t stop dumping your liters and hordes of hypocritical, grudging self-serving doses of synthetic generosity into me. Made me vapid and vacuous so I could retain every drop of it, bloated with artifice and appearance. I was overwatered by the time you were done.

            I only resented how you wouldn’t admit it even to the very, very end. Everything about you was fear-based. Your “love,” the supposed sadism, your dulled edges, the holding on and locking in. Two cowards trapped in the vengeful, voracious cyclones of self-hatred and emotional irresponsibility: that can never be love. It only makes the hideaway a bit more bearable. I kept you company while we swept the clutter, the burnt out blunts, and the withering bodies under your bed. I can smell weakness without redemption from miles away, and it’s enough to make me sick. Bloated and nauseated and always high on your easy words.

I know you showed up that day, and all accounts were settled. Debts and credit silenced and tucked away neatly in the corners of our pockets to be petted and forgotten. The culmination of your efforts and the ones I made or the ones you thought I ought to have made shat in your face and pissed in mine. That it was almost enjoyable sometimes, sure. That we were terrified of our own shadows and did what we could to keep up a perpetual, artificial sunshine, true. Even if that meant lying through our teeth and every square inch of our bodies. That it was impossible for us to be human to each other and that the idea of love between humanoid mice was absolutely preposterous, yes. You leaving without word and me leaving with too many- a regret and a promise that will never be made again.

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