Pretender

The heart breaks
and breaks
and breaks
I think of leaving New York and wonder if I'm just trying to cut gashes in my flesh larger than those cut without my consent, that the pain in my gut be only my own doing. We smile and laugh in all the right places, the sun shines over Brooklyn; for a short moment I thought I could make it out of this alive, but I lay down in Fort Greene Park later and cried into the mild summer evening, so it seems nothing has changed. I have cried over this in every borough of New York now, is there a trophy for the feat?

He looks at your sunglasses and whispers poker face, but your skin feels like cellophane, the math doesn't add up. The blood within you vibrates, your eyes squint, for a short moment your life was easy and you should have known it wouldn't last. She writes from across the ocean convinced the pain will kill her, and every time you think of what you lost you understand the feeling. Unknown shores and adventured potential line up on your horizon, but you would trade them all for the things we burned. It isn't up to you.

A mint green typewriter stands in your window sill. It waits, and waits, it doesn't leave your side even as you rage. It occurs to me I made a deal with the devil, and maybe now is when he comes to cash in.

Maybe now is when you claim the reward you earned.