Stream of Consciousness

Jenny, This One’s For You

or, I’m Over It & Done with Your Cowardice

Last time we spoke, we let the conversation stretch out that we found ourselves punctuating our sentences with the soft, shallow breaths of our sleep. I came to your image on the screen in which you slept & knew that I had offered up my vulnerability to you like a Christian prayer to a malevolent deity. Despite my best effort, I nursed on your sweet nothings, seeking nourishment in your venom. You pushed me off the road of self destruction into oncoming traffic, where you left me playing a one-man rendition of Frogger in which the motorist of each passing vehicle was you.

As a habit, I replay every single moment of our time together, dissecting them for some deeper meaning. Memories of you visiting me at work, where we sat on the floor between the shelves as you complained about your day while I pretended to work. Of the two us browsing through Walmart where you found a pair of sheep pajamas that you wanted, but didn’t buy—even though you went back to buy later in the night. Of our first kiss outside in a Dairy Queen parking lot, and just how quick I managed to steal your breath. How we chased a frog with your son in the park, the last night you were only a few streets away from me and not the thousand-mile divide you called home.

I searched for clues. Replayed the conversations that initially led to your nonexistent goodbye. Because like the cowardly bitch that you proved yourself to be, you’d rather vanish in thin air than face the confrontation of your casualties. Despite the miles you’ve dragged me through, I still don’t hate you. Nor can I pity you. You’ve given yourself the shovel and dug your own grave. Because I know people like you. Those who want love, but cannot give it. Those who live for the drama of their actions because it allows you to remain the victim of your circumstances without owning up to responsibility.

So here we are again. Estranged. And no matter how much I try to get through to you, no matter how much I demand some closure, the unhappily ever after ending to our story, you’ll never give it up. Because it gives you some false sense of having the upper hand over me. But this is my closure. This is how the story ends—me yelling at the top of my lungs to no one at all. But who the hell cares, right?

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