I’d Rather Go Blind

“Whoo, whoo, I was just, I was just, I was just, Sittin here thinkin’, of your kiss and your warm embrace, yeah, When the reflection in the glass that I held to my lips now, baby, Revealed the tears that was on my face, yeah. Whoo and baby, baby, I’d rather, I’d rather be blind, boy, Then to see you walk away, see you walk away from me, yeah, Whoo, baby, baby, baby, I’d rather be blind…” Etta James

Day One of Cold Turkey: I watched His Girl Friday with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Under normal circumstances I’m a slave to Cary Grant’s charming personality and debonair style. But I was so  disappointed by Monsieur Grant. This is the man I’ve based all other men off of? The man who drives off his wife and then when she plans to remarry refuses to let her wed? Instead he “convinces” her with his hack-brained schemes that she’s better off with him. And she willingly obliges in the end, falling prey to his shenanigans.

Then I watched Cadillac Records with Adrian Brody, Jeffery Wright, and Beyonce. I sat awestruck as White Daddy Chess seduces Madame James while his wife and child sit at home staring longingly at the door for his return. So Etta sings I’d Rather Go Blind at the end of the movie to mark his departure from the record business and her life.

Is this what we count as love? Normally, I’d be all hero-worshipping and forlorn by the change of events; wanting this happy ending of star-crossed lovers. But with my new eyes I see this notion of love as manipulation by domineering bastards who want their cake, the pie, ice cream, and then the entire damn bakery. It’s never enough to want what they have, but they need more and more and the women fall in line like slack-jawed vassals. When did love become synonymous with barter? I gamble for your affection as I dangle my time and attention in front of your love starved nose; next time don’t tie my hands behind my back.

I’m tired of love being unattainable; unhealthy; unreal.

I wrote a poem… if you can call it that. I’m not much of a lyricist. I’m more of a verbalist, my words ink stains on the page.

Don’t talk to me about flowers, cuz flowers don’t grow where I live.

Don’t talk tome about lovers, cuz all the lovers I know have kids.

Don’t talk to me about proposals, a proposition I’m more likely to receive.

The last time someone flew me to the moon, I crashed hard from the blue little pill.

I stopped dreaming of Prince Charming, When the Prince of Pain showed up in his place.

I’ve lost myself in the music dreaming of rainbows and butterflies, as I compromise on thunderstorms and wasps.

For some, fantasies become reality and yet mine have tarnished. A Rembrandt fading in the sunlight. The artists brush strokes invisible as the cracks uncover the linen canvas underneath.

The hopeless romantic, lost in the treaty of Versailles. A family divided and separated across continents. The faint echos of their goodbyes whispered in the wind.

The loneliness stifles like a prisoner’s solitary confinement; where roaches and rats become long-lost friends; their stores more interesting than any of Aesop’s fables.

So Don’t talk to me of champagne, I’m more likely to overdose on box wine.

Don’t wink your eye or stand close enough that I can smell your cologne.

The truth is I’d rather remain exclusive.

I’d rather feel the grass tickle my toes;

I’d rather hear the silence than the peal of church bells.

I’d rather drown in the frigid constraints of my coverlet, than slink into Hades warm embrace.

No, Don’t talk to me about love, because love don’t live here anymore.



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