lost in the lust as we always did. Once we were together, nothing else mattered. He did that to me. He made me forget all the bad stuff in my life.”
I hated this asshole, too. I shook my head, looked around the room, then went back to reading.
“He began to move quickly and I knew he was about to come. I began to move with him and once I felt it, I dug my nails into his back. He flinched, then grinned at me and really began to fuck me hard, just the way I liked it.
When it was over, I knew I was going to go with him.”
I shut the journal and looked around the room. I shook my head. I was this close to a jealous rage.
But that was a long time ago. She didn’t still love this guy still, did she? It suddenly occurred to me that she could be with this bastard, living out in Hollywood while I was pining for her. Was that where she was? Living it up while I sat here and rotted?
I stood and began to pace. No. Maybe. Maybe not. I should read the rest of it and see what happened to this prince. I made a vow to myself that if she was with him, I would hunt him down and beat the living shit out of him.
Good. Good decision. I picked the journal up and started reading again.
“Frank wrote me this poem:
Her beauty waits on a crescent
Timeless as the hour
Given birth to the sky
She believes only in herself
Her hands delicate
She has the eye of a hungry boxer
Her feet tiny
She races through the day in a ballerina’s body
Never does she claim to know more than she really does
Never will I be able to capture her
Or put our love in a bottle
Never will we float together
Carried by a tireless ocean
To our somewhere
She doesn’t want that.”
The bastard wrote her a poem? I shook my head and re-read it. It was okay, I guess. If you liked that kind of thing. She believes only in herself. Well, he had that right anyway. Maybe I should have written a poem for her.
I threw my hands up in the hair and shook my fist at the ceiling. I couldn’t win. I couldn’t win. I couldn’t win. I should just stop trying.
I went back to the page.
“I think he would have made a much better poet than actor.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I just thought that poem was the shit. I still carry it around with me in my wallet. Whenever I’m down, I take it out and read it. It makes me feel special.”
He probably didn’t even write it. Couldn’t she see when she was being duped? She was such a romantic. She wanted candles and baths and backrubs. She always wanted me to tell her why I loved her.
“Why?” she’d ask. “Why do you love me ?”
I would just stare at her and say, “Because I can’t help it.”
This would make her smile and she’d say, “I feel the same way, baby.”
What a liar. If she felt the same way, I wouldn’t be reading her journals and finding out about all of her old lovers.
“Frank was always such a romantic. But then of course, everything changed. Next thing I know, he asked me to move to LA and I almost did. But Mom got sick and he left on his own. She wasn’t really sick. She just used that to get me to stay. Urgh!
Not one fucking year later, Frank made it in Hollywood. He was the shit. I could have killed Mom. Why did she want to ruin my life? Why did she keep interfering? And he was huge! You couldn’t go into a grocery store without seeing his face splattered all over the tabloids. ‘Frank’s Big Night Out!’ and ‘Frank, the Womanizer!’”
And to think, I’d never even heard of him. Has-been was what he was now. Ha!
“I would sit and hold those damn tabloids with his face on them and cry for hours. I would shake with rage and disappointment. He was so in love with me and then, bam! He was gone and I was stuck here! Thanks to her!
That’s when I told myself that she would never destroy another relationship of mine. She would never come between me and my man, whoever he happened to be. I didn’t care if he was a bum; if I loved him, I
I hated this asshole, too. I shook my head, looked around the room, then went back to reading.
“He began to move quickly and I knew he was about to come. I began to move with him and once I felt it, I dug my nails into his back. He flinched, then grinned at me and really began to fuck me hard, just the way I liked it.
When it was over, I knew I was going to go with him.”
I shut the journal and looked around the room. I shook my head. I was this close to a jealous rage.
But that was a long time ago. She didn’t still love this guy still, did she? It suddenly occurred to me that she could be with this bastard, living out in Hollywood while I was pining for her. Was that where she was? Living it up while I sat here and rotted?
I stood and began to pace. No. Maybe. Maybe not. I should read the rest of it and see what happened to this prince. I made a vow to myself that if she was with him, I would hunt him down and beat the living shit out of him.
Good. Good decision. I picked the journal up and started reading again.
“Frank wrote me this poem:
Her beauty waits on a crescent
Timeless as the hour
Given birth to the sky
She believes only in herself
Her hands delicate
She has the eye of a hungry boxer
Her feet tiny
She races through the day in a ballerina’s body
Never does she claim to know more than she really does
Never will I be able to capture her
Or put our love in a bottle
Never will we float together
Carried by a tireless ocean
To our somewhere
She doesn’t want that.”
The bastard wrote her a poem? I shook my head and re-read it. It was okay, I guess. If you liked that kind of thing. She believes only in herself. Well, he had that right anyway. Maybe I should have written a poem for her.
I threw my hands up in the hair and shook my fist at the ceiling. I couldn’t win. I couldn’t win. I couldn’t win. I should just stop trying.
I went back to the page.
“I think he would have made a much better poet than actor.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I just thought that poem was the shit. I still carry it around with me in my wallet. Whenever I’m down, I take it out and read it. It makes me feel special.”
He probably didn’t even write it. Couldn’t she see when she was being duped? She was such a romantic. She wanted candles and baths and backrubs. She always wanted me to tell her why I loved her.
“Why?” she’d ask. “Why do you love me ?”
I would just stare at her and say, “Because I can’t help it.”
This would make her smile and she’d say, “I feel the same way, baby.”
What a liar. If she felt the same way, I wouldn’t be reading her journals and finding out about all of her old lovers.
“Frank was always such a romantic. But then of course, everything changed. Next thing I know, he asked me to move to LA and I almost did. But Mom got sick and he left on his own. She wasn’t really sick. She just used that to get me to stay. Urgh!
Not one fucking year later, Frank made it in Hollywood. He was the shit. I could have killed Mom. Why did she want to ruin my life? Why did she keep interfering? And he was huge! You couldn’t go into a grocery store without seeing his face splattered all over the tabloids. ‘Frank’s Big Night Out!’ and ‘Frank, the Womanizer!’”
And to think, I’d never even heard of him. Has-been was what he was now. Ha!
“I would sit and hold those damn tabloids with his face on them and cry for hours. I would shake with rage and disappointment. He was so in love with me and then, bam! He was gone and I was stuck here! Thanks to her!
That’s when I told myself that she would never destroy another relationship of mine. She would never come between me and my man, whoever he happened to be. I didn’t care if he was a bum; if I loved him, I
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