internal monologue OR divorce poems vii
it’s cold out; the wind cuts right through my coat, and i’ve left my scarf at home, intentionally. i want to get sick. i need an excuse not to go out.
that being said, it’s true you took half our friends with you in the divorce. don’t even try to deny it, you did, and now i don’t go out half as much as i used to, which is good because i’m miserable anyway.
i went to our favourite bar - my favourite bar, i’d been going there millenia before we met, i took you there since you’d never been in - two nights ago. you were there, and you were with someone. it’s barely been two months! what right do you have to be with someone?
and then you were with him in the record store, the one on bloor street, by the subway station where we met. i’m not stalking you, you’re just in all my favourite places. i saw you holding up a john cale album. “this,” you said, “is great.”
fucking deceiver! it took you months to like that album. i made you listen to it with me every time you were drunk enough to agree to the act, and i think you only ever said you liked it in public. gaining ground with my friends. or rather, people who used to be my friends before you left.
and you don’t even listen to vinyl. get out of the section, please.
listen, since we’re dividing everything now - you get this party, i get that get-together; i get the apartment, you get the cat - can i get that bar? i’m not asking for much. you didn’t even want the apartment anyway. you can have kensington park, but i want the bar. and the vinyl section at sonic boom.
i slide through the familiar doors, up the staircase, to my place. it’s hard to call it “my” place. bitch. (sorry.)
the ashtrays are overflowing. built to spill is still playing on the stereo. i only went out for more cigarettes, and because it was raining. i take off my coat, drop it on the floor by the door, and go look at the bottles of wine i’ve been collecting.
seems like i’m out of alcohol. i guess i’ll have to go out again.
(frankih.)
