“Driving in a Heatwave”
Self hatred induced by the self centered Does he know what he’s doing?
My voice, quiet as a church mouse, just as it was in childhood musicals, when I was forced to shout in order for my teacher to leave me alone and silence my internal embarrassing scream. He reduces me to a prepubescent age, I cant be heard over the sound of his ego-- or his demos he plays at full blast on my stereo.
At the end of the never-ending vacation I want to break. Tears roll down my cheek, they dry up with the empathizing heatwave.
The tears are covered by his monolithic iphone, he cannot pry from his eyes. He challenges himself by seeing how many seconds he can bear not looking at it-- about 2 --I dont know if I’m happy I’m hidden, or in hell because he doesn’t recognize his girlfriend, who drove the entire weekend, is crying less than a foot away from him.
The flood comes. The surge of self hating sentiments. Do i know what I’m doing? I cannot believe I let myself give more than I have What would be called “too much” or “grand gestures.”
I don’t want reparations disguised as thank-you’s. I want something that is too late to give, and is built with a structure of attention and willful consideration,
And all i keep asking is Why do I let myself fall into this pattern again? I falter harder every time.
It gets harder to keep a straight face when tears rolls down like sweat and my face is as stone cold and distant as it ever was. He either cannot see or denies what he sees.
I stop at an old ‘50s cafe, the kind that leaves gum with the check, and forbids dancing on tables. I hope the unchanged scene will put my mind at ease. He and I get cows, one black one brown, I pay for both. I compare the desire for ice cream to raising children, sweet in thought and pretense and sickeningly regretful once complete
We continue on. My face is dry. I’ve convinced him I’m happy The rolling scenarios of breaking down in front of him-- ruining his day, confessing I am here and have concerns, opening the possibility that perhaps I’m “too boring” for him, or serious, or sensitive-- are packed away tightly. The overstuffed closet is closed when you put your shoulder in it.
He leaves when we arrive. Maybe he saw a glimpse of what lurked in the closet, but I disregard his attempt to thank me just like I disregarded his initial move toward romance.
It took negotiation to agree to this partnership.
Appearing half-hearted due to cowardice is not tolerated, I need more than a thought for it to count.
