The Last Dance of a Hypocrite

His self loathing used to be so intoxicating, constantly luring me in--first asking me to feel sympathy, then empathy, and now--well now, I just want to leave. Sometimes quitting your life and moving to 'greener pastures' or 'new surroundings' isn't that. And I was thinking it was time to call a spade a spade. Sometimes it's just running. And if you were never a good runner, starting that kind of trek in your late 20s seemed to be quite the amateur ambition.

Being a delinquent wasn't all it was cracked up to be. For some reason, he thought he was romantic and brooding and enlightened. But really--he was lost. He was a knock off of Peter Pan and if you think about it, Peter Pan was always fucked up. After all, he was a 'lost boy.'

The only thing he had mastered was the art of the suckerpunch. And I was on to him. Swiping my cheeks and socking me in the gut didn't break my heart the way it used to. Like I said on so many occasions, I didn't miss that. I missed all that he took over these years. I missed me.

I wasn't living in the past or looking for why I was happy on a Tuesday. I wanted to wash away the thoughts of lowering coffins and butterscotch candy that didn't taste like it did in 1997. Fuck him for bringing it all back. He was nothing but a harbinger. Manipulative and strategic in his need to drown everything in my being. Ubiquitous. Ominous. Predatory. Ill willed. Waltzing with his worthlessness.

I didn't need grandfather clocks--or any clocks for that matter--to remind me that being Wendy had always been a sign of the time. Wasted time.