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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Friday, Nov. 08, 2002 @ 11:43 pm
The Phoenix: I'll Rise Tomorrow.
It was drinks at The Whip. I was helping him fold a paper crane from a napkin. I'm not sure why it interested him so much that I could flip the paper into a flying bird, that I knew the folds by heart, that I'm not Japanese. Perhaps it was an excuse for us to brush hands. A way to bring me closer, as far away I've held myself from him.
He made fun of me in front of the group, made fun of my shyness. It hurt. It stung, that insult coming from his lips. He reached over and touched my shoulder, "I'm sorry, Shannon. I didn't mean that."
He's with her now. He was late leaving for the airport because we had another pitcher. He's cuddled up on the couch with her, she's in the bed where he's held me. Or where I'd like to have imagined he held me. It was all in my head. His lies become apparent in the end. All lies. I'm alone. I'm ugly on the outside, a shame, his shame, his sin.
The crane flew out of our hands and lay to rest on the table between us. I crushed it with my glass.
He tried to save it, to sharpen up the folds. I only wish he'd take as much care with the folds he made in my heart.