R.I.P. (no. 15)

Ladies and gentlemen... He once told me I should be grateful to have him. Because, apparently, I was below his standard. Fix yourself up, darling. Bigger tits. Clearer skin. More makeup. New dresses. Be the masterpiece I need you to be.” Such a nice guy. Ivan the Terrible. Existential suicide in cognac-colored Stressless chairs. It’s good for your self-esteem, you said, while I slowly disappeared. Polish yourself. Shine a little. Don't fade. Be perfect. Be useful. Be pretty. Be the woman the perfect man deserves. Meanwhile... his laughter flickered on the flat-screen TV, and I sat beside him in the prison of emptiness. A soul with a flat plate where a heart should be. Fetterlein-dumbness. Bravo. Eighteen years making it make sense. Packed lunches. Laundry. Homework. Who picks up? Who reaches out? Who gets blamed? Who keeps quiet? Who gets the headache? His hits became silence. His silence became routine. His routine became reality. And reality... became a fucking flat plate. FETTERLEIN-DUMBNESS! COGNAC ON ICE! FETTERLEIN-DUMBNESS! EVERYTHING'S NICE! YOU HAVE YOUR PILLS! YOU HAVE YOUR PRIDE! YOU HAVE YOUR COGNAC AND YOUR DIGITAL EYES! HE WAS OTHERWISE SUCH A NICE GUY! IVAN THE TERRIBLE! I PAINT MY PAIN! I BREAK THE FRAME! I AM NOT YOUR HEADACHE! I AM NOT YOUR NAME! He pounded the table in Itri. Then watched me through the wires. Sniper-watched in Canada. Digital little empire. My existence: DELETED. My world: MONITORED. Thank you for your cooperation. Then came the bus driver. He gave me his number. Why? Friendship? Confusion? Or simply because the boundaries had quietly left the building? Spirituality is actually quite hands-on practical. So is disaster. BLACK LEDGER! BURN! COGNAC CHAIR! TURN! I'M NOT YOUR VICTIM! I'M NOT YOUR SCREEN! I'M THE FUCKING GLITCH IN YOUR PERFECT MACHINE! CUT THE FRAME! CHANGE THE NAME! BLAME THE GHOST! REPEAT THE GAME! FETTERLEIN-DUMBNESS! CHOOSE SOMETHING ELSE! I thought I'd never say your name without tasting yours first. Now it falls easy. Almost natural. And maybe that's the strangest thing: it doesn't hurt anymore. I dance. I laugh. Something in me still belongs to you. Something in me already left. I almost texted: Come over. One beautiful temporary lie. Then I remembered— you are dead. How inconvenient. FETTERLEIN-DUMBNESS! THE CIRCUS IS CLOSED! THE COGNAC CHAIR HAS BEEN EXPOSED! STRESS BECOMES SOURCE CODE! WRINKLES BECOME ART! THE BLACK LEDGER CAN'T RESTART! I'M NOT YOUR HEADACHE! I'M NOT YOUR SCREEN! I'M NOT THE WOMAN YOU NEEDED ME TO BE! I WEAR MY SCARS! I WEAR THEM BRIGHT! I LEFT THE COGNAC CHAIR! I KEEP THE LIGHT! I'll cut it into pieces. Every line you wrote. Make a collage of illusions... and call it: Real Love. Maybe it finally settled down in you. I hope it's quiet... where you are.