Where are the lies? Where are they? It was all over the news. Some drowned in the black coffee she spat on his grave. Others where chewed up by the yellow teeth of a broken soul that had to be born again. The fast ones escaped. There is one that still echoes in the tin box where she incarcerated it. Its metallic sound makes her puke sometimes.
Loving was his urge, his urgency. He desperately wanted to love and love he did, all the pretty girls, all with the same words. Why wouldn’t he? They came out so easily, so equally full of shit. He didn’t know it, but he wasn’t ready to love. His heart was a song composed of nothing but a corny chorus. Pretty girls like corny. That he knew, so he got them all.
A Shanghai queen? Midnight in a perfect world? Kisses that bring dead vampires back to life? None of it exists, none of it is true. Then again, nothing is. You better learn to live with the facts: card castles never fall apart and broken glass doesn’t really cut. It’s all make-belief. You are born, you lie, you are lied to, and you die. That is life. Once you get it, the pain goes away. Hearts only hurt when they’re about to stop.
She was not aware of that then, so she cried. She cried for him, for an unrequited love disguised as an orange kiss. A minute of silence for her dead tears. A minute of silence and a sigh. She cried his death as well. She knew where he was going. Yes, hell is his new home. No one to talk to after movies, no books by Bukowsky, no jazz, definitely no sex. That’s fine, he can go an eternity without a piece of ass, right?
He died through his nose. Exhaled mucus and his last ounce of life. Milky, rotten life asphyxiated in a bottle of beer. A prostitute found him in the brothel’s bathroom. That, my friends, is a Kodak moment.
Now, get up. A standing ovation is in order. He thanks the Academy and his wife. Crap, he doesn’t remember her name. Has he ever known it? It starts with L… no D… or C? Wait… there’s no one sitting in his wife’s chair. He doesn’t have a wife. He’s not really holding an Oscar. Poor thing, there was no light at the end of his tunnel.
Why? You ask. Because he was bad. The bad boy doesn’t get to be loved by pretty girls with cotton hearts. Not anymore. His 16-mm dreams were reduced to pieces by angry scissors. That’s the destiny he forged for himself. He knew he didn’t deserve better. Deep down he knew, so he embraced it with sad eyes and the nostalgia of what was never meant to be. She remembers his sad eyes. She remembers and dies.
For that, fuck him. Fuck his bittersweet existence, his intoxicating words, his seductive ways. Fuck her as well. Fuck her candy lips, her stupid grin, her bones for adoring him to the marrow. Fuck them both for being so consciously deceitful and still make sense.
Cut their heads off and bring them to me on a silver platter! Make that a plastic bucket. You know what? Not her head. She is not going to die, not going to hell to keep him company. I write her fate as I speak. She will have a happy life beside a pretty boy with a cotton heart. He will taste her candy lips, redraw her stupid grin, his bones will too adore her to the marrow. He will say “I love you”, and her heart will stop. No, it won’t hurt. She found the missing lies. She found them and flushed them down the toilet.
