Dear, Madame, Sir,

Madame,

Thank something you’ve got your tv girls to hear about how much you have to kowtow to and placate your man, otherwise you might stumble upon the silence to realize how much I placate you.  I don’t go into specifics about you with my friends.  If I did, they’d mistake you for an uncomfortable joke.

That veil you ask me to call you, that “paint it on an inch thick,” is not as pretty as you’ve been lead to believe.  It’s the embodiment of deception, the senses’ lie.  I prefer you in honest dark.  There we’re silhouettes, our bodies divining their shapes, altered only by muscle and movement.  Your make-up can’t be made out.  Even in that place still, if my lips brush your concealer they retract with a taste of sour clay.  Even there, your eye-liner smells up-close like concentrated skunk.  A man’s face is less smooth, but sometimes serves me better (in your world this is something I detest with ignorance.  It’s no wonder they call it a beard).

Fake it, fall asleep and flatulate so rotten it makes my eyes water and tells my time a minute’s an hour.  Your sleep is sound as the circle of an oxbow lake.  Don’t fret.  Your purse and heel club will never know.  I’ll hold it till the next time you model me a dress that places your head on Holly’s body.  I’ll smile well.  Its fabric, and your skin, are simply too tight.  Sleep selfishly.  When you wake blanketless, without a crust or wrinkle, I’ll blow morning breath between your shoulders and sunshine up your ass.  Don’t get self-conscious; dish it back better than you kiss.  I’ll always love you.  I’d like us to know each other.  I no longer see the fun in a fall with curtains drawn.

Sir,
The moon’s silver only reflects seven percent of the sun’s light.  A sidewalk gives off the same amount at brightest day.  This percentage is about as far as you’ve come in terms of any understanding of me.  The me of you, of us, as opposed to the me of my; there you’re at pluto light, were the blue invisible.

I’m happy to have caused you to dwell upon something other than yourself, even if it’s a surface turned headwards and simplified to blocks.  If you’ve bored of our graceless and lumbering dance, holding me threaded, upended as some topsy-turvy toy ballerina, then boomerang her out and wait for what you always do, that which you expect.  It will not be me in return, but a delighted echo as her body gains straightening speed without so much as a nod “home” while imaginings of false love become further and smaller.  That should give you something new to think about.  Feel free to fail to consider it a gift among many unnoticed, you swine-swoggling smugtart of an over-stretched and obliviously aging imp.

Next time’ll be your next ma’am.

Did you think I’d wrap this up with something about the moon?  Something comparing you and it?  Something about pox and scant reflecting abilities and pulls that keep those you surround in constant thankful weight while they really dream of taking off and staying away?  How you define gravity as opposed to what you and my musical tell me should be done with it?  Call those questions an answer if you’d like.  At least you were better than a lie.

One response to “Dear, Madame, Sir,

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