THERE IS NO MORE ROOM FOR HEART ATTACKS HERE,
says a sign up above your head in a crowded restuarant,
somewhere south, somewhere wrong, somewhere that doesn’t seem
clean
you were reading american psycho in an abandoned parking lot when it hit you
you didn’t call
she was riding her bike down the street two blocks down from hers that you used to reside on,
she puked on the side of your house where your car used to be parked without a purpose other than thinking about your hands
you don’t think of her unless you’re hurting
you don’t think of her unless you start remembering the summer heat
and how, for someone so particularly young, she had way too many
lines in her face, you wondered, you always wondered, where they had
come from
because the coffee cup breaks
you don’t live here anymore
she isn’t she no longer, she is a woman now
full bodied, bigger breasts, yet still hiding in shadows, those shadows
you created from babysitting all the demons that possessed her and
then vanishing along with them
you ask yourself what she asks herself
where is the line?
where is the part where they come back and clean up the dinner table and let you rest outside on the swingset, with your hands in the air, with flowers in your hair, forgetting that the moment you stop and look is the moment you realize you took way too long to
keep it lasting longer
all you were saying was this wasn’t a test
it wasn’t something that you could beep a red light to and say NO
there was eggs, there was razors, and there was a small walk to and from the store that took longer than an entire war,
yet you picked this route
yet you decided to keep the scars and wash your hands
the waitress picks up the broken glass and smiles
hands you another empty coffee cup
you fill it up the way you used to fill it up before you couldn’t
black coffee, a sugar packet, one tablespoon of cream
you look back to the sign above your head
once again, reading the neon sign,
THERE IS NO MORE ROOM FOR HEART ATTACKS HERE
now,
do you smile or do you scream?