ages old.

I heard about all the stories you used to tell her. All the clichés you thought I'd never hear about or laugh at. Under a self-imposed cataract there are still no skeletons in that walk-in closet that can shock me now, With all their spines intertwined to form a mass body buildup of tissues unused and un-Loved versions of your figure standing still, sitting on the sloping window sill waiting for a Prince Charming. you're going straight to hell on this ride, darling. A silent testimonial for a product that melted, froze, stopped working too soon, just some cream for a rash of irrational disbelief, so it would stop the wanton doubting before it consumed your ideas of all the things you wanted to be. After all, you just wanted them to love you. Right?
So you won't have to be alone and you lie in your bed shaking because you're frozen in a cold sweat of "nobody loves me"s and "I'll be alone forever"s while you stutter prayers to an atheistic god with narcoleptic tendencies who could never keep you warm between silken sheets the way she could. Because insomnia proved that this kind of thinking can kill you in a way that all the drugs you suck down can't. Because, she counters that there aren't enough souls in this world for you to convert to your broken unholy religion, based on disbelief anyway, and be content. She broke it and told me everything, in a thin chapped voice pleading innocence; it was only under your persuasion that she attached herself to these pellagrously insane idols. Every single bone plucked of meat, she revealed Every scar Every tear Every shred of dignity you might have conserved. She exposed them all. Before you even knew there were skeletons in your closet. She knew their stories in a delicate detail you've never been able to fathom the necessity of. You see she found all the condom wrappers you hid from your mother and the lotion and the porn magazines. She found the cigarettes and the pot and the smack and the ecstasy and she didn't say a word to anyone except me. You wouldn't find her now, not if you tried. You threw her away before you knew what she could offer you, before you noticed the gold trim lurking at the bottom of her porcelain soul. For me through the dirt she's piled, most of it reserved for shoveling onto your grave, mine entwined in ashes, my ashes, driving towards an empty graveyeard. She claims you could fill an ocean with all the tears and clichés and screams for you. A minor inconvenience that should make the rest of us realize we never had a shot in the first place. And she takes a sip, nodding, a sultry swig of over-aged scotch, bathing in a bubble of insecurities, a maniac look blotching her perfect skin, a criminally crimson spot on her perfect record as she threatens to throw the whole thing up in your face, your eyes are blown to pieces, watching what you never wanted to know, what you never wanted to exist. Your stubborn nightmare. A Sick Perversion of truth you chose to invest in because you know, life is more of a game of Monopoly than any of us realized. We're covered on insurance, but you've got the hotels stacked up around us, a fort of southern comfort hospitality wrapped in blue blanket and she lets this one measly tear run down her cheek for all these photographs we never smiled in; we looked so hopeless, helpless to save ourselves, full of nothing but empty promises that you never fulfilled. You're just sewn together, rags of cotton, fleece, burlap, the occasional velvet thread, pillowcases drowning in pools of burgandy, links chaining you to an idea of what it used to mean to be you.