Heart of Trash

I ran over the moment, back and forth, again and again, like a roller running out of ink. From what I remember, you were a character plucked from the world of Shakespeare, thrown into this world. I was born here, unwanted and mutated by society into a giant muscle, to fight the loud arbitrary floggings of Reality.

I run over the moment, my memory fades as the ink rubs off on it. I take a break and look down upon it. Rolling back and forth, the moment gets blacker and blacker. I tried to tell you that I’m a giant centipede, handsome little boy. My pretty face is fangs filled with poison. But you only seemed to listen when sometimes I would say, “I wish I was a faery, that lived inside the trees.” I’m just a city girl with a city mouth, go fuck yerself and your storybook malaise.

I was born in the sewers, you were born in a stream;
I am made out of nightmares, you are fashioned from dreams.

I’m imperfect as Hell, and your the most pseudo-angelic judgemental no-soul, slick, bruises easily, ego oriented, made of glass, motherfucker I have ever met. Again, I run over the moment, slower and slower now. The picture can’t get any blacker. The memory still fades a little more each time. However many times I go over it, I cannot erase the imprint of the template, where the moment I fell in love with you is carved. That moment before you decided that I didn’t have a heart.

It might be a suburban-trash, American-nightmare heart, beating violently from years of maltreatment and suppression, and yes it is locked inside an old metal box, wrapped in chains and barbed wire and has ultimately been buried under backyard dirt by upstanding citizens that were tired of it staining them red on their suits and white shoes. And at this point weeds might be growing over it; brambles and thorns, and maybe even mutated monster plants that will eat your soul if you try to get near it; but it is still there. And it can still love. But you never believed that. You didn’t even listen to me when I told you my name is not Juliet.

At least I didn’t draw a heart on my sleeve with magic marker and pretend it was real, Romeo.