Insanity is intellectually stimulating,
especially your own.
I loved a man once
who's both insane and a drunk
(although he only claims the last).
He's kept me busy for months:
we first met on February 27,
he got me pregnant on the Ides of March,
hit me on Easter's eve,
and broke through my window (twice) on May 10th.
You see, I have to document these things.
I thought then I could get rid of him,
but he charmed me into a motel room
on the July 4th weekend.
We didn't go for fireworks, we had sex
and slept and floated in the pool instead.
In the water, the clouds seemed to say it'll be okay.
Every few hours, he rode his bike back
to the halfway house. When he'd return,
he'd gripe about dishes, his punishment
for whatever wrong he'd done.
Last night, he said, "I've always defied this life,"
and he's right--even when he doesn't try,
the dishes pile up. He'll never do them.
He refuses to dirty his hands.
The dishes chase him the way he chases me.
He's like the teenage girl I used to be.
He weeps, he pleads, he writes poems
(not usually complimentary).
On the phone, he drones about sunsets,
and the sky, and the loss of our love.
"It was just good sex," I say,
"There's nothing here to pine for."
"The sight of your soap on my tub breaks my heart,"
he replies. Good God, it's a pain in the ass
growing up.
Before you feel too sorry for him,
let me also mention
all the times he's called me a whore,
or something of that flavor,
his diatribes about my weight,
the hundreds of messages and email,
the roses at my door right now.
(Floral intimidation--it's a new art, I guess.)
And it's only September, the beginning
of the third trimester.
I know you'll say there's a way
to end it, finally. Write and tell me!
I'm too deep in my own sink to see.