In the precarious light of a sanctimonious sun I confess my sins to you. You who through rivalry are acclimated but never appalled by my flair for the dramatic. You who share my love of dangerous men and untidy adrenalin filled dalliances that have no hope of proposal. The story is always the same I met a man, good-looking but with a deliciously repellent and misunderstood personality. A man whose bad childhood justifies his actions more or less. The sex was incredible, I mean really incredible, practically religious. Our relationships was 60” by 80” of perfect happiness, outside of that padded cell I was miserable. I broke up with him after a few months of fooling around, it was just getting too sordid, too complicated, even for me, if you can imagine.
He died shortly after, I didn’t murder him, he just died in a very ordinary sort of way, a car accident, no alcohol, quickly I am told. I was devastated, I am not a monster, I really mourned that bastard. Then I started getting sick, I figured it was the lack of sleep and not eating right but I couldn’t manage to pull myself together. It was like he was inside of me, haunting me, tormenting me. Maybe the breakup was what did him in? Maybe he was crying and he couldn’t see the speeding Nissan heading right for him? Rationally I knew he wasn’t upset, I saw him chatting up a girl not three days after the breakup but there was nothing logical about my grief, the immensity of it. You would have thought my husband had died the way I went on about it. I lost my job, I started putting on weight, I stopped showering for fuck’s sake.
Nothing mattered, I visited his grave everyday. What does one do at a grave anyways? I kept reading him poems even though I knew he’d hate them. I just had to keep talking and I didn’t know enough to say anything to him personally. You were a great lay but kinda of an asshole? That’s not really a conversation. Sometimes I begged him to forgive me, not just for his death but for everything. I just sat there praying to this worthless bastard and his worthless corpse, deranged with grief.
During one of my ridiculous poetry recitals an old woman asked me if that was the father of my child. I was livid, fat and livid but it turns out I was also pregnant. It was too late for an abortion and I couldn’t kill his child too, our child, my child specifically. So I had a child, a boy, that looks just like him only bald and with delightfully smiley eyes. He loves me and he is the first man who I can honestly say that about. He’s obsessed with breasts like the rest of them but he is a good guy. His name is Luca and I’d like you to meet him.
The beautiful photograph is brought to you by the prompt host howanxious