emma b. says

Sunday, April 22, 2007

wontcha come back, wontcha all come back, we'll have a party in the bath tub, I'll be Scarlett O'Hara in the tub. There we can sit and palaver, you can tell me all I done wrong and I'll sweat and run through the suitable hues, it'll be tight, but we'll be alright. Too many ghosts of christmas' promised... oh but hey guess what? HELLO! Emma is all sorts of peeved, and said as much to the eight year old who dared provoke the ire in the park today. The horrid little brat had the gaul to tell me I was on the wrong side of the path, here I was preambulating trying to temper my heartbeat and my temper when this wee squirt tells me I am on the wrong side - he's got two lanes of snot running into the corners of his mouth and something about his bratty tone just sets me into MASSIVE BITCH mode. So I gather all my hauteur and look down my nose and say - actually, young man, this path is clearly marked Pedestrian Only, so you'd best move to the bicycle path. Ah sweet, sweet vindication, then him mama took a step in my direction and I pointed to the words painted beneath my feet.... and went henceforth satisfied that I had bullied a snotty nosed seven year old and his mama, then I cried surreptitiously in the bushes - I got that poncy seven year old - oh yes I did.

I am not (well, yes I am) proud.

Yes I store these petty victories in the low branches, like a bonbon I can pluck and savor at my leisure, they are ill gotten gains, but I loves them just as I loves all the promises of the lovelorn and careworn, coming round the corner in the skinny jeans and the careless flesh spilling everywhere - have I told you yet that I miss you, you who I know or don't yet. You might find my derision distasteful, or maybe you'll just take me up or maybe you will just take me down that untrodden path, maybe it's just late and I should put me and my romantic notions to sleep. Because I am certifiably not in love with anyone or anything anymore, least of all myself.

Keep checking the horizon for the that plume of smoke, I've a feeling that moment of metaphysical self immolation is close at hand, from my ashes, from my ashes we'll go soaring, I'll miss you, I always did, in all of your bodies and all of your voices. You trail behind me as knots in a kite string, whispering faults to the wind and the stoic pelicans, just let me go, let me let you go. No more pummeling, no more nothing, no more time that was. No more remembering all of that good, free sex. No more remembering when I was desired. How lovley it was.

I am ready for a ghost free roof.


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