The Shattering . . .

words that simply comfort for a few moments, then vanish. With soft promises of you, "being there," and "having my back," for you won't. He didn't. Oh, at first, three short years ago, in my shoddy dreams of enduring love where I had the gall to believe this monster. No words can heal what I have. Not prayer. Not sleep. And not even music, so do not write me any ballads to express how "I" feel. I don't need them. I don't need you.

to confide in my pain and "act" like he understands just how dark and ugly the hallway to Hell really feels to the soles of my feet, for he doesn't. He is just a mortal like me. The only difference is that he wears a different pattern of life. And clothes that never fit the likes of me.

Oh, don't bother handing me the tissues, for I will spend the next two days just weeping like a baby unashamed of a tarnished deed. I sit by myself and the thoughts of "his" daggered-words, "babe, I need to tell you something . . ." bombard my shattered heart like bastard vultures looking for a dead meal. That's right! I said it. Bastard vultures. That's all you and your kind are. Bastard vultures circling me, awaiting one final chance to rip the remainder of what's left of my flesh from my broken bones. Go ahead! Get to it and don't act sorry, for you can't. You probably sabotaged that one moment I had dreamed of with my one love on that mute wooden bridge. The moment when my aching lips and yearning loins would meet his flesh and the heat from our love would drive us to madness. You know. Like those expressive couples in New York do. They love openly. And in outdoor restaurants with stone-faced waiters holding small containers of coffee. I wanted that. I dreamed of that. But when this "monster," in a three-piece suit said, "babe, I need to tell you something . . ." my intestines actually tied in a knot. But who am I kidding? I knew it was coming. But you know, a kid when he plays with his truck at Christmas never dreams things like "this" could happen to him. And they don't! Just a sucker like me. A girl with good looks, wit, a body to kill for, and a gullible heart. That's who gets the axe, my friend.

when "he" said those infected-words, " babe, there's something I need to tell you . . ." I actually, for one moment of vanished belief, thought he was going to ask for some money for his trip to Los Angeles next week. I curse myself for bleeding in my soul like I am doing now. Idiots and gullible entities like me are "wonders of God," because no priest can explain why "we" are on this earth to begin with. And sometimes when "that" thought enters my head, I laugh. But only for a moment.

I used to love dancing with "him." Now I wish death on the talented men and women of the music industry. I truly believe that they know me by name, for hey, I bought all of their CD's and DVD's. They should know me. But they never wrote me a song for when "this" walk with uncertain love began three years ago. It was dancing barefoot in the fountains of the city letting my silk dress get soaked to he could see "me" underneath. I would giggle and flirt water on him and he would sigh at my teasing. How stupid can one girl be? Why does love have to con women like me? Can you answer that my muted friend? You are just sitting there at my bedside listening to my moans and broken songs. I hate you. I wish I were you for a day. Why? Because "you" have no feelings. No heart or soul to be stolen. You my silent ally, are invincible. Whereas I am slop in the road for cars to run over. That sums it up.

Well, that is not only a dumb question, but an unneeded query. I don't need anyone asking questions when I am not dressed. I hate my nakedness. Even in privacy. I hate how I am made. I hate why I was made. What? Don't blame yourself, you say? Please leave. Now. Oh, it was "his," fault more than mine. I see. I am not stupid, for I have a Master's Degree in Sociology, but not a learning in shattering of the heart. I guess God didn't want us women to experience the ultimate freedom of being "had" in bed and being able to leave with a clear conscience. Whore? No way. I hate whores. I am a sorta just woman. I have morals. I "used to have" occasional sex with "him," and he would lay with me and talk of dreams we could build. And eat our breakfasts in a bedroom filled with Sunday morning sun. Not "his" fault, but mine for just believing. That's it, my friend. For just believing.

What did he have to say to me with that "babe, I need to tell you something . . .?" Oh, something about being stagnant with our place in our relationship and some other "b.s." he learned from Yale. He should have just been a man with balls and said, "sweetie, I need to break up with you, for there is another vagina waiting for me in town," and be done with it. I would have respected him for that even though my heart was shattered. But "he" was no man. Just a few good times in silk sheets and a opaque promise to a future I never will know.

I will just sit here for awhile in my bay window and watch the children play in the snow. You go on leave. Your husband worries about you so. I wish I had that.

Don't get any wrinkles about my shattering life. It has been shattered before. And I managed to rebuild it from thek few honored pieces I could find laying in the dirt.

I'll rebuild. Go on now. Your supper will get cold. I will rebuild.

Just wish I knew how.