treatswords

Maybe you didn’t want to hurt me.

I think that’s why you lied.

At first the lies were white, wispy. An outline of butterfly wings.

“I’m working late.”

And I’m sure you were, at least at first.

Carrying heavy glass all day was taxing, your back ached, a lump grew on your right knee.

Better wash the days sweat and broken glass off with a few glasses of Hennessy.

So, you called to tell me work was running late, while you were sitting at a bar, boots dirty, orange vest on. The gap in your teeth sucking in the plum liquor.

I wonder when you first met her.

Did she brush by your table in a hurry?

Dark long hair, vivid green eyes, Combat boots.

You didn’t smoke but you started coming home smelling of Tabaco.

The smell filled the wrinkles in our sheets. I stripped them, yelling at you.

“Why does our bed smell like a damn smoking section? Have you been smoking?”

“No, of course not.” And again, you weren’t lying, not really.

You didn’t smoke, but she did.

Newport’s, green menthol box.

I found a box crushed beneath the passenger seat one day.

I imagine her long arm out the window, black nails, ashing along the highway, smoke caressing you both.

I think she was different, not clean cut like me.

I ironed my shirts before bed, placing them on bamboo hangers.

She pulled old band-tees from the dirty bin, smelling them before sliding them over her bedhead.

Was it her tattoos?

A spider hanging from a web on her forearm, a lion’s face on her neck.

A naked woman on your arm.

I always hated that one.

Large boobs, sharp nipples, a visible camel toe.

She was your tattoo transformed to life.

And here she was, passing by you, Hennessy in hand.

The white lies became tainted.

I blame the Tabaco for the mustard stains that started to grow like mold on a windowsill.

Soon, you quit caring what time you came home.

Your boots outside the door, 5 am.

I opened the it before you had the chance to twist your key.

I looked at you, searching for you to finally admit it.

“Just tell me. Please, just say it. Put me out of my misery.”

Pink robe wrapped around me.

You paused, and I waited for it, words to come out of your mouth that weren’t white.

But they didn’t.

“I told you I was at Mike’s and passed out.”

Walking past me, burly man.

You were a bushel of fur despite your shiny head.

You smelled of her.

Feminine, a daisy in spring, coated with an oxblood stain.

Spilled wine, used for cooking at this point.

“Vinegar.” I said.

You paused.

“What?” You said, without turning back to face me.

“You smell of vinegar.”

“Jesus Christ. I’m getting ready for work; I can’t deal with this shit right now.”

Deal with this shit.

You meant my shit.

Climbing in the shower, the knob locking.

Why did you always lock the door when you showered?

I grabbed a butter knife, slipped it into the slit turning the knob.

I wanted to pull the white shower curtain down and wrap you in it.

“See now you are a cocoon of what you really are.”

A liar.

And the type of liar you were had no color.

It was all bad.

It all hurt.

Despite being white.