Bad Self Portraits

“I’ve spent my life, so lost on lovin’, I could have been a painter or a president, But after 25 years, I should be good at something, Gone are the days of me being so innocent. I’m taking night classes, I’m making sculptures, I’m painting bad self-portraits, Of a lonely woman” Lake Street Dive

 

I’ll be some man’s other woman soon. Some women are resigned and settle whereas I politely accept second best. Pliant, I move with the wind, with the guidance of your nimble fingers. You go left, I go left. You veer right realizing your error; I’ll trot right behind you. Though you lack direction I have agreed to follow you—and I’m forever a woman of my word.

I hate that two years have passed and yet some days I still miss you. Lord knows those are words no one wants to hear. Just because I will never turn around, doesn’t mean I won’t sit and wallow.

I wish your claws were out of my back. Hard to walk when your face is held in a puddle of mud. Flip it, reverse it I’m “dum” to allow myself to drown. If I didn’t have so much bloody time on my hands, holding the ‘b’eat, trying to match a cadence to my memory of your drum—I wouldn’t reminisce so often. Over analyzing. Making things important that you found trivial, holding on to memories you easily discarded.

A lady’s weakness be her downfall, so I loathe myself for loving you. You’re an ass and yet I’d still dress you up in a top hat and tails to parade you around like a prize. Every sinner wants a ride when her feet are tired from walking alone. A mule garnished in garland: the chariot of a princess, tiara high, hand erect to wave at the crowd. Never does she notice the pungent odor of the droppings in her wake.

Have you ever let a stranger come inside? Careful that they don’t squat there: barge into your residence, raid your fridge, load their linens in your laundry basket. You overlook the racket as a temporary nuisance, never expecting to miss the noise when it suddenly disappears.

I’d clear a space for you to sit beside me. Remark on the way your appearance has changed. I’d watch you whittle, mind the sureness of your hands. Time is wasting. Enough to look over and notice no one is really there. And no one really was.

Random musings, random mutterings—the ramblings when a mind wanders too far into the past. Today’s simple kisses will be loaded with regret.

Can you name that tune?

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