Ridge's Lit and Art Zine

The Devil's Quill

Disintegration’s Choreography / no title will do my memory justice

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We were dancing in a Motel 6 to Amy Winehouse and broken promises; but I was good to her. I treated her like she was the last cigarette in the pack of marlboro reds and I stuck her right between my teeth. I would inhale her words like they were the poetry but they would cling to my throat and cough back up like cyanide.

But we just kept dancing, days and nights weren’t passing in front of us, we were passing in front of them in a defiant delusion of unrequited love, cementing our feet into the streets just so that people would see that we still existed. A tango at a masquerade ball of unopened love letters declaring a fallacy of loyalty. A ballroom dance of childhood mementos that are now oversaturated with meaningless emotion.

Loving her was the illicit art of forgetting who I was.

I told her at all hours of the morning that I will hold up the flashlight on my cell phone so that if she could not find the light at the end of the tunnel at least she could find me. But when she caught up to my light, she just kept walking.

Now, she doesn’t even remember those conversations, now she can’t stand the sight of me, now she doesn’t think of me so she refuses to remember all that I gave to her.

But me? I can’t forget because I am still teaching my tongue to forget her name. I am still teaching my skin to forget her touch. I am still teaching my ears to not listen for her voice. When you have been cold for so long fire is a murderous elixir.

Loving her was the violent affliction of forgetting I was still alive.

Don’t misunderstand me, I have anger – so much so that I can still mistake her chaos for her red lipstick smile and it tears me apart. Some nights I imagine that we never met, that she never tried to know me, that we never danced. Some nights I choose that my two left feet make a better dancer than her pair. And some nights I choose that I wouldn’t change how things happened all. Because if she didn’t meet me, I’m not sure if she would still be breathing to hate me today.
But then again she died long before I knew her.

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Ridge's Lit and Art Zine
Disintegration’s Choreography / no title will do my memory justice