Got knives

Have you seen 'em?
In your back's where we keep 'em
And your never gonna reach 'em
Now that sounds fair.

Tonight I'll undress her with blood-shot eyes. My lips wet with bourbon that I've been spilling down my neck and onto my sleep pants. Her dress will fall from her hide like lies from between her teeth. The impressive six-inch stilettos that have been inducing an uncomfortable numbness in her feet will slip out from beneath her. This is her most truthful form, at times. Her eyeballs like hallways and her bare sternum like a ballroom occupied by unwanted guests. Yes, it's true; Many have danced just like this before me. I don't really mind. She looks better dressed anyway. I invite her into my bed and as she leans back, pressing her curly locks against one of my pillows, I imagine what it'd have been like had she lived. Had she not made this unfortunate decision. I'm sitting on my bedside as she pulls the covers back and slivers underneath them. She releases an emphatic sigh as to imply that she enjoys my bed. Its satin sheets. The warmth and comfort it offers. Perhaps she even remotely enjoys my company. I don't take much time to wonder. As she continually repositions her body in a manner that nearly resembles the way a dog nudges its head underneath your arm in an attempt to gain your attention and to covet a highly anticipated show of affection, I pull back my side of the covers and force myself underneath them far less gracefully than she before me.

All but her head is immersed in satin. I lie there staring at the dim overhead light installed directly above the space between our heads. I feel her fingers uncertainly skim my side beneath the covers as if she beckoned me to turn and face her. Her fingers are nimble and cold. I turn away to face the wall instead. It was at this time that it dawned on me that my walls are poorly decorated; this one in particular. Besides blank space, there are only torn-out pages from collected books of philosophy strategically censored and disjointed in a rouse to confuse its readers surrounding a framed portrait of Elvis Presley exchanging pleasantries with Richard Nixon. I'm disrupted by the shifting of her body when I remember the stark naked girl lying next to me. I can feel her breath on my neck and her breasts against my back now. The hairs on the back of my neck are seemingly standing.

She reaches over my transfixed body to recover her cigarettes from the nightstand. I hear the clink of a zippo's lid being removed followed by the sound of fire ignition and suddenly my senses are overwhelmed by the billowing of smoke that's cascading from her mouth. As I listen and examine the timing of her inhalation and exhalation I imagine her as a mound of porous gray matter with the unmistakable contour of a woman's body except she's without any orifice and for once she's beautiful. She breaks my concentration and the ongoing silence with a deep clearing of her throat to which I simply reply, "Yes?" She extinguishes her cigarette and probably empties its remains onto my carpet, knowing that I won't notice nor care.

"You don't care about me anymore," she says.
"No."
"Why is that?"
I hesitate to answer. By the time I've decided to keep my mouth shut she's already speaking again. She mumbles so I ask that she repeat herself.
She says "I better be leaving."
"What makes you say that?", I ask.

I remember the hospital. The aged blinds that adorned the room's windows. The stench of antibacterial solvent and sickness. Then the blinding sirens. The deafening roar of confusion and devastation in marriage. Holding her hand. Her hands were cold and damp with nervous sweat. I remember thinking to myself, "This is the worst drive of my life" as I sat in the back of the speeding ambulance. The small bench-like seat barely accommodated my large frame. Everything about it was uncomfortable.

"You don't care about me anymore", she says. By now I'm staring her in the face. I recognize the familiar structure of it. I realize that my head would fit comfortably resting against her chest, underneath her broad chin. I inch closer to her. I reach to embrace her but my limbs coil back into place. I sigh, almost wince. "It didn't have to be like this", I say. She turns away from me and lifts herself up. The sheets drape from the underside of her arms as she sits upright and manages to keep herself covered. Only her bare back is facing me. She continues to sit and stare idly as if the walls were staring back at her. This goes on for several minutes.


I remember her letting go and leaving me. I remember pretending that I was alright with it as the room filled with her relatives and friends. They couldn't see the solemn and rising level of contempt that lurked behind my wide smiles and mild sighs. They didn't know that I wasn't weeping for her but for myself. I remember the events leading up to that day. The events that ultimately made that day possible. I recall her betrayal and the revelation that quickly followed.

Finally I notice the muscles above the small of her back slightly tighten and her slouching posture dramatically correct itself. She stands up, letting the sheets serving as curtains unveil her body. After letting out a soft moan she starts to collect her clothes from the floor and dress herself. This process is surprisingly tidy as I expected her to be in a rush much like last time. She turns to address me and I wake up to the cold crinkle of sheets on a bed that hasn't been occupied by two people in months. Our love is clearly dead but I can't bring myself to kill her yet. Maybe next time.