Memoirs of A Queen

Phase 8: I Loved You More Than I Loved Life Itself

In my baggy ripped jeans I sat in the middle of my now empty room. Various tear drops fell from my eyes and down my cheeks, drip dropping off of my chin. I palmed the chain on my neck that had a blue binky hanging from it.

"I'm so ready for love. The love I deserved" I thought to myself as I pursed my lips. But I knew that my thoughts were only desires, they would become nothing. Not even a pinch of something that mattered. I would come up short looking for this thing called love. Looking to my right, I peered at the now fractured picture frame that  nursed a picture of August and Sylvester. I'm glad I've destroyed the picture that seemed so faultless. The shattered glass resembled my crossed attitude. I crawled over to it as if I was a wild animal closing in on its prey. Once I came close enough to it, I smashed my blood stained fist into the glass once more, letting my mocha skin sink through the glass shards from time to time. I was vex. Very, very vex.

August didn't love me like I loved him. He didn't deserve me. He wasn't shit. He threw me away like a week old pizza slice into the garbage of broken souls. He had no remorse, as if he was a sociopath when it comes to compassion. There was no special spot in his heart that was identical to the spot in my heart that was designated for him.

He savagely ripped my core to shreds with his long fingernails of pure abhorrence. Hatred. Nothing less than disgust.

What did she have on me? Huh?! What did Paloma have on me? What was it? Her ashen peel? Her mane that was unimpeded and clear of any form of the coils and waves of wool? Her bland structure? Well excuse the discourtesy of my deceived mind. Unfortunately, God didn't love me enough to shield me from the overdosage of melanin droplets that he mixed into my potion of existence. He didn't care enough about whether I'd get ridiculed or not, or whether my "first" would leave me for someone who was nothing but the great granddaughter of a corrupt Jew hater.

I wasn't made holy like her.

August Anthony Alsina didn't treat me like he treated his mistress. I loathed her for the way he showered her with an ear full of his whispers. Whispers of sweet nothings.

The beauty in me that his mother seen was not noticeable to him nor I.

He abandoned me. Just like the rest of my retched herd. He could never care like I did. He could never feel deeply for me as I felt deeply for him. He could never spend sleepless nights writing pages and pages of poems and songs all about his accursed being. He wasn't programmed like that. Over, and over, and over again I have tried to open his hooded eyes of illegal materials to see that I am , perhaps, a "rider". Whatever that means.

I tried to make him think that I was pretty. I tried to force his swirly fingerprints to touch me like they used to. Oh how he could never keep his hands off of me before Sylvester.

I was his Princess Tiana and he was my Prince Naveen.

But that was all horrifyingly flushed down the toilet. He wasn't fit for the gift that was weaved and sewed into the depths of my hysteria without a fair warning. Without a fair clue. Without any thing such as an ant hill or the look of a full stomach on thanksgiving evening. I was the one that took the responsibility.

Using the back of my hand I wiped my tears. This would be the last cry that I would squeeze out of my chest for this young fellow. I can't mourn over him. No, scratch that, I can't mourn over them. I was going to try my hardest to up my net worth, after all that was the best revenge.

As I lifted myself up off of the ground, different coats slid off of me. The coat of insecurity slipped off. The coat of hurt slipped off. The coat of depression and mania slipped off. And last but not least, the coat of the ruins of my heart slipped off. I was a new woman now, I convinced myself of this.