Basement Apartment For My Heart

Basement apartment for my heart

The staccato of my house is belligerent enough to move me to tears. I am alone, again. Yet, I will not cry.

I will not disrespect my spiritual maturity for another dude who paid me a compliment andscrewed me so hard,

it went pass physical drilling.

It’s a quiet night tonight. The bird man hasn’t come around, my next door neighbor’s infant has settled in quickly and the boys with the saggy pants have gone to another block to cause their baseless noise.

Tonight is the kind of night, you pull out a bottle of something forbidden, heat up last night’s dinner, and do everything that distracts you from thinking.

It’s a difficultfeat because the mind is an exasperating megaphone to your core on a night like this, so you’re going to have to drink and drink and drink, and then some.

I can’t decide if I want the music to intervene because I am a slave to misery associated with love-foolery so maybe the silence is a bittersweet guest I welcome with very little zest. Perhaps a Woody Allen film is in order - a confirmation that you are not the only lover with a “complicated” life. Woody understands, we like that.

So I pour my wine, in my pink shorts (that he loved) and my grey t-shirt, smile because I know that the first sip is like sex with the tip going straight in. Barefoot, I float to my living room and plop myself smack in the middle of my persian rug, right by my unopened box that serves as a table or lean-on square. I’ve decided I won’t cry but I’m still sober. I don’t own a t.v. so that’s not an option. I sit. I sit there legs folded, sipping, sometimes guzzling down my wine like it is the blood of Jesus that will put me to sleep and bring me back every lover that I burned in my memory because they never loved me back the way I needed each and every one of them to.

I don’t know when it started to rain or when I stained my floor vine-red but I was wet with tears. My head hurt from too much of everything. I wanted to scream but the neighbor’s baby-

I wanted to be held by Tony

or Ben

or Van.

I wanted someone I knew, who knew my clicks and ticks to beg my pardon for the fucking that was coming. I needed no mistakes or declarations of any sort just hold me. No need to be nice to me, I can pretend in my head that you love me, will never hurt me and the way that we are now, arrested in each others arms, will be this way forever. Just for tonight, support my endeavor to be the perfect woman you adore senselessly. But of course, that which we want the most tends to be an elusive thing.

Hours have carried on with their job, I probably should get up and go to bed but I like my mess - sprawled on my beautiful carpet like a corpse flung from a high rise, drunk and replete. I think I will camp out here for the night.

The thing I’m thinking is, I’m not pissed at him. I’m pissed that he is not the first one to do this. He won’t be the last. I’m pissed that I still can’t get used to the flimsy nature of a penis. My pissed-ness has little to do with him or anyone of them for that fact, it’s all me. My lovers are my lovers.

When all is said and done,

it’s just me. In the meantime,

my heart camps out in a basement apartment amongst a company of rats and roaches waiting for you to just call. Not only would I answer that call

 but I would give you everything.

Michael Kelly