my sweet prince

i'd like to think i'm not resentful for his choice... to cut his hair short and part-take in all the masculine activities.

problem is, i am. so i giggle and pretend... he does look like the way he did when i was a shy freshman and setting eyes on his fifteen year old frame for the first time. i gave him a small cake for his birthday just a few months after, it wasn't a very cold december from what i remember. but that's not why i giggle... it's really just an odd, awkward kind of nervous laugh... a laugh that tries to reassure me that i can at least try

but in the filth of my clothes that i drop into the barrel of my washer, i check the pockets pulling out a bit of broken black crayon and a small crumpled pieces of paper. it's what i had doodled on weeks before with a glance i know what it is. it's the loopy letters of cursive which was the name i can't stand to hear anymore... it makes me angry and sick, almost like the name of that slut i lost myself to a year or so ago. drawn with bubbles and seaweed i know that funky misdrawn shape in the corner is... it was my shell

but now my heart turned away from that name, calcified and hard almost like that perl that doesn't look so beautiful the first moment you lay your eyes on it... a grungy and distasteful kind of sympathy of what this little marble could be. sadly that's how i think i saw the situation.

so i threw the stupid little paper back in the wash and slammed the door closed... and hit the little button to soon drown it all away, to smear the ink and in twenty-five minuets be nothing more than a tightly wrapped hunk of lint in the pocket soon to be shown the merciless tumble of my dryer!
what a doom



but i hate him for changing his mind. i think i'm ready to admit that. i hate how he sways his hips sometimes, trying to be so alluring and it only stirs up the wrong feeling inside my stomach. i hate how he purses his lips and shifts his shoulders, like he's got something to flaunt.

i don't know if i'm supposed to love him still... hold his face close and pet his cheeks the same, because now when i am against him it seems we're not close enough... like he doesn't understand how tight he's supposed to hold me, and in that i feel like i can just as easily fall out of his arms and into an infidelity of sorts

so i push him aside and cover in blankets, but he never notices what a distress it is, just to be next to him.  the shame of what i did or what i intended on. it's reassured that it's surly a symbol of love and passion, but it feels more like lust of a harlot honeyed in such an offense

so i lie on the phone and pretend it's all okay