UNIVERSAL TRUTHS

 

UNIVERSAL TRUTHS

You liar,
you with your mouth full of silk ties
and your hands like two cheap watches
that never kept the same time.
I resent the way you left the door unlocked
so I could walk right back into the trap
every damn night,
resent the dent you carved in my mattress
like a signature on a bad check. 
I sit here at the kitchen table
with the coffee gone bitter
and the cigarette burning down to the filter,
practicing my resentment
the way other women practice piano.
It’s a steady, ugly scale:
C for cunt,
D for darling you promised,
E for everything you said was a lie.
My fingers are raw from it. 
I resent the way your perfume
still clings to the collar of my coat
like a ghost that won’t pay rent.
I resent the mirror for showing me
the same stupid face
that believed you when you said
foreveras if forever was something
you could buy on layaway. 
You took my body like a rental car,
drove it hard,
left the tank empty
and the radio tuned to your favorite station—
some smooth-talking song about love.
I resent the radio now.
I resent the bed.
I resent the way I still reach for the dent
in the dark,
hating myself more than I hate you,
which is saying something,
honey,
because I hate you
the way a dog hates the hand
that fed it poison. Anne would understand.
She’d pour another drink,
light another cigarette,
and say,
Well, at least the resentment is honest.
Mine is.
It’s a bruise the color of old wine,
shaped exactly like your name,
and every time I press it
it sings back
you should have known better
in the same sweet voice
you used to lie. So here I am,
resenting the liar,
resenting the fool who believed her,
resenting the fact
that the fool is still me—
eye-rolling,
cigarette-smoking,
stupid-hearted me.
And the worst part?
I’d do it again.
Just to watch you smile
that same beautiful, filthy lie.