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Living vicariously through Dorothy Parker Living vicariously through Dorothy Parker
by Abigail George
2020-02-24 10:46:52
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(for Staff Sergeant Joseph William George)

I dope myself up with the dead poets and sleeping pills,
with Marilyn, with Bukowski (it was booze), with Sylvia.
I just want to rest, chill, relax, float out of the window like it
matters. I’ve been so tired. One day in your life you’ll
remember me, my touch, the look in my eyes when I
met your glance, and now you’ll stay alive for me for the
rest of my life. Your image is familiar, it helps me to cope
with the absence of the summer birds, absence of monkish-
birdsong, absence of frail miracles, beliefs, norms, and
values. I’m standing on the edge, and if I could turn back
time I would, and I would have made love to you, love
in the afternoon, and you would have said my name,
would have taken me into your arms and kissed me, and
then things would have been alright in my world again.

And I would not have had the nervous breakdown, or the
psychosis, or landed in a posh clinic for bipolar madness.
I am alive, I am living proof of salvation, I am leaving
your heart with my heart, all things fade away like dust,
fire destroys a kind of non-reality, the requiem for a dream,
the lips of Dunkirk volcano lovers, I am falling apart.
My walk is like an adolescent waltz, and this is my parade.
I haven’t invited you, but you’re here. I am woman.
You are a man who believes in potential, and denim jeans,
I am falling for you unselfishly, gift of a man, I am productive
for you, I am drifting, and in minutes I no longer feel
anything for you. I’m going away, far, and you’ll never
find me. You’re beautiful, and I think that’s why I believed
in you so much. For such a long time, back at your door,

I’m not falling apart without you. Your mix-tape tears are
like paradise, rain washing me away. I was listening to music
in my bedroom, door closed, humming, eyes closed, playing
air guitar. Today I did not love anyone. I don’t want you
to make me feel beautiful. You are ugly, my mother said. So, she
was the first person to make me feel insecure. Now I kill
people, lovers, boyfriends, girlfriends with words, words.
I tell myself that this is the time for peace, and sobriety, this
is the time to sip touch, slip away, empire-heart beating
just for you, told everyone you were my boyfriend at the
cheat-hospital, I was too cool for words to even care if it
was truth or madness. You don’t see me. You’ve never even
seen the real me. You’re killing me, man look in the mirror,
discover me, or annihilate me with one condescending look.


Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!



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