Paranoia

This evening is not going to turn back, and

look at me. She is already gone, dispassionate, and

somewhat cold. She is not coming back.

Scattered pages of books in progress will not

tell the story of my life. What I read or wrote

will always be secondary, to what I did not. So much

left unsaid, so much left unread. This evening

is isotope marked-an identifier of sadness from

the mere melancholy. She will serve in the future,

to identify the cancerous growth inside me, but sadly

not offer a cure.

This evening is an accident. Ephemeral, ersatz,

and so many other big words, all pronouncing

“fake!” , this evening is that. She smiles at me with

the waiting-to-be-paid, stone-cold smile of

a whore, ingratiating herself to me, all the while,

with an eye on what she can take away from me.

I do not trust this evening, I do not believe her transparent

smile. And yet, I tell her my secrets, like she were

my therapist. She raises her eyebrows, and I melt into

her arms, even though I know she is more crooked

than a short story. I hate this evening, and the more I

hate, the more I fall in love. She will take me,

and my life.