I carried her to my place, still holding
her in my arms as she whispered what had
happened.
"She left, said that she was done being a
mother to a trash can and a wife to a
beer bottle; who knew she could be so
poetic?" A tired laugh poured gently out
of her bruised lips. "All I want to feel is that
I'm good enough for something, for my own
damn mother."
"Do you know how it feels when
rocks hit your soul, your own heart
as you watch your own mother
pack her bags and glare at you?
Just across the street, I remember we
would always wave to the ice cream man.
Now, the ice cream man is afraid of us, I bet.
He never comes anymore."
Her memories tossed from one side
of her brain to the other—aching for attention.
I gently laid her down on my bed and
brushed away her tangled hair. "I'm so done,
Charlie. I look like a mess. I am a mess."
My mouth was dry with words
I couldn't say.
"Please give me life again, Charlie,
because all I want is to be held. What
do I have to do restore my innocence?
My trust? My love? My everything, Charlie
I am just a scratched out thought thrown into
the trash can. Thrown into me. That doesn't
even make sense. What makes sense anymore?"
I looked into her eyes. Her tears began
once more. "I'm sorry, Charlie. You must
hate me."
I shook my head and planted
kisses on her cold, battered lips.
And in that night, we forgot
everything that happened
and focused on how the
stars shine a little brighter
when you stare a little longer.
Yet as we lay in a bed of emotions,
fate played with our thin-threaded
lives and decided to bring along
new unplanned lives.
