The Next Morning

Did you cry after? Nah, I never do. I need nicotine, though. And the blackest coffee you can make.

The only thing that can make me really cry is writing what I’ve just been keeping. Keeping for what? For who? Because why?

You won’t like all that I have to say. So, I’ll get back on the road. All a man wants is a ‘like’ anyway. Whether you make that click or made him a sandwich.

Men have more heads to think with, but usually only listen to the one. Nah, I’m not mad. I’m just furious.

Is this about you? About him? About me? I don’t think so. Actually, I do. But does it matter? Sure as hell not – which is only a construct that’s supposedly full of fuego. Even though fire is an earthly element.

Can I be a bitch? Oh, you don’t even know. The word bitch is mine. And belongs to every feminine bulldog, woman, girl, or female runt of the litter.

You feel taken advantage of? Oh, honey, please don’t. Don’t think on those words ya dicho between the pillows.

I didn’t mislead you. And anyway, are you sure I wasn’t just thinking of flower talk?

Do I live to write? Do I write to live? Eh, that’s too philosophical. Jump out of the clouds, and come look at the real ones with me.

Alright, I’m off. To roll down the windows, to turn off the radio.

You know there’s not much of the world left. I tell you all the time.

P.S. Díos mío. Did I just challenge you? Well, are you on a different Earth? Anyone can be challenged. Only the true fighters rise to it. And only we will fix this god-damned dumpster fire of a polluted, destroyed life.

# that (Admittedly, I probably won’t. Nor really want you to. I’m just as afraid as everyone else).