Happy Memories

Coming down there, from my shit filled bedroom to the apartment that was supposed to be mine, having to listen to the two of you and your self-important collection of knowledge and self-assigned intelligence, watching you, watching you in her bed because you didn’t even bother to block the view.

She nagged about curtains, so that your sex could be more dramatic and visible. I refused. Do you wonder why?

Yeah, it was great, finding you there. in the mornings, in the afternoons, at night. continuous assault. continuous loss and bitterness. continuously confused, shocked, horrified. I was unable to escape. Nowhere to go but someone else’s bed, which i couldn’t. wouldn’t. but did.

And she would comfort me, telling me how you talked about me, compared me to movie stars. Because I am so beautiful. Or how you planed to write about me, in a book of yours, while she stole pieces of my poetry and told me how stupid I was. How I was mad. I was mad. Because of you.

And now you call me the poet. Sarcastically of course. Yeah, I’m not able to understand your jokes. But your insults I have never had problems with.

Last time I met her she spent half an hour of my time describing the bags under my eyes. You where embarrassed and made fetal attempts to stop her tirade, she entertained and pleased at my lack of reaction while hoping secretly that it would sink in somehow, somewhere.