She said.
"I believe there is something oddly beautiful in suicide."
For in return, Frank simply remained silent.
As stupid seldom needs an encore.
Which is a statement largely wasted upon the ignorant.
As they sat upon the floor sharing drinks and little to nothing else.
She was a delusional fool, for which youth often grants that privilege in spades.
And her looks had clearly allowed her to skate by even the most venomous thinkers such as Frank.
Something in her statement enraged him so no matter it's effects.
He had to allow this airhead to know the side everyone thought was his truth.
"So my dear, death intrigues you? Ever been close to it?"
"No, but I write about it a lot in my poems."
"Yes and from what I have read you clearly believe it to be a fashion label but at least you wear it well sweetheart."
Frank, replied taking a ship from his drink.
"Hey! Why are you being such an asshole to me?"
Tabitha snapped back.
"Sorry my dear it's just my nature. Refill sweetheart."
"You know, you don't have to act around me. I mean we are close.
I mean I just like sucked your dick a minute ago."
"Yeah and clearly it's the smartest thing to come out of your mouth in a awhile sugar."
"Fuck you asshole!"
Tabitha shouted as she stood up and stomped out the room.
Frank could have made nice and chased after her.
But in all truth this was far more honest of an exchange.
They both had a momentary thirst and that said thirst had been quenched.
People always want to see the devil to simply know he exists.
Have a dance, maybe even a night's embrace to say you simply have been to the gates of hell.
Was it a trophy or a souvenir?
Frank hadn't a clue.
Tabitha wasn't stupid just simply delusional.
It's strange how people believe getting close to something that clearly isn't there to begin with.
Will somehow turn out differently for them, where it all turned to shit for everyone else.
Frank poured another and sat there basking in the silence and afterglow of a moment's release.
Before airhead's idiotic verbal intrusion.
For Tabitha, believed to be an artist, you must be deep and walk a razor's edge.
When in truth Frank, like any other lived his life not as a fashion statement.
It was simply the only life he knew.
As the pages now collect dust but a reputation is a both a curse and odd blessing.
As fools believed when you were silent. You were off creating some great art not just simply drinking your ass off.
And so are the trappings of ego and success.
Tabitha wanted to be what you simply could not become with filters and horn dog social media followers.
And somewhere along the way she came to the crossroads and met the devil himself.
She stomped off slamming the door as she left.
Calling rejection pain, when in truth it's the one common ground all true writers share.
The drinks flowed in her absence as life dragged on unfortunately.
Happy endings were only good in fairy tales and bedtime stories.
As for kids and delusional fools alike.
Frank would not be leaving the light on or the welcome mat out.
There were no vacancies in hell tonight.
John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and The Black Shamrock Magazine.
And author of The Still Night Sessions from Whiskey City Press.
His work has been published here at the Dope Fiend Daily as well as Fearless Poetry Zine, Lothorian Poetry Journal, Punk Noir Magazine, Piker Press, Medusa's Kitchen, San Antonio Review, San Pedro River Review.
His work is always unfiltered.
No comments:
Post a Comment