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He Takes All of His Girlfriends to Mexico

A tale of being betrayed by your own desires

By Atlas QuestPublished 2 years ago 10 min read

I’ve been pacing the floors of my mind, contemplating these realities, and which of them to say. Because writing to you is not like writing to him, knowing one day you will read these words that accentuate these pages. More so in fact I’ve typed them before hand to keep track of my wonderings. As this life’s tempo quickens, I question my volition as Lucifer’s derision consumes God’s vision for my life. It’s life itself that I question; learning to be human is no simple task for one as myself. I’m simply a human in training, tripping over humanities customs. I’m constantly trampling the subtle feet of its dance.

A distrusting relationship is comparable to sky diving: the first partner must be vulnerable enough to leap from the plane, but if the second hesitates too long in pulling the parachute, the pandemonium within the first may end up killing them both. And there it was, the reflective face of redemption blinking upon a machine built broadcast screen. Contrasting the fabrication of useless preconceived needs. Those one paints across their vivacious heart in scintillating kindergarten yards.

Ploughing through a purposeful successive rushing life; one filled with ancient penned notes, coffee grounds, and graveyard shift nights. She could imagine it, so icily clear, so vividly it brought her to condemning tears. Laced fingers jutting across the televised lens of her eyes, pulling grinding teeth into lock jaw frame. A stranger’s chagrin face she could now imagine beneath her lacey trace. So what he was entrenched in fame? In her mocking heart, she envisioned them one in the same.

Trapped within that tiny screen, seated succinct on NBC. Telling the people what they want to know; deciding which direction in which life should go. Moments perceptible by touch. To the world, she’d be another shelved girl standing in line, yet upon his lap she envisioned placid recline. This moment was a thing time couldn’t circumspectly define. Though in her feverish heart, the suspended intuition was right.

Two weeks into running the Sky Clinic, I realized I didn’t have the answers to everything just the ones that they seek. While remaining intent on diving deep into the mire of their lives, whilst treading on the surface of mine, so as to not be crushed by the undertow’s tide. As I have learned is the patient plight of an empathetic life. At a passing time Psychology Weekly would have suited me best. As tender fingers traced pads across magazine stacks, an unmistakable cover made me flick back.

A face made mine on the cover of TIME, speaking of a new tide. And in the cresting pages of a another, lied so many flicks more. Cracking a fading smirk of delight, I thought to a minor me in a lesser time. Clasping my black rayon trench tight, stepping out into the open darkness I blended with that of the night. Approaching an hour of a predestined time, that encompassed only you and I. A reclusive shop that I praised with hopeful glimmered eyes, holding there within a synergetic calculated conversation plotted mine. Mere seconds into the sips of coffee she swallowed, a glimmering smirk from a suitor did follow. Upon page three in blotted words I seen a face, that I then did look up to see standing before me. Ending with an exchanging of a card pressed with an embossed coffee ring.

Jostling open a pensive side-bed drawer, checking raised ink reflective of the numbers lighting up my 3 a.m. screen. Closing the lids of buffered eyes, looking for the reason or rhyme. His voice crackled as an ashen cigarette dial tone. Saying minimal, in order to convey it all. Pupils dilating behind glozed sentiments, searching for true north as I listened in. The collective space of hollow pauses spoke to me of a fall. When one wins 20,000 cash, who do they call?

Ambition is always a tricky collision; leaving our desires to mirror that of a driverless car. Often mistaking ignorant arrogance of youth, with that of the solidified confidence of crinkled wisdom. It is wasted adolescence unrehearsed. All the potential sponged up by hasty flight-filled decisions. A slamming pine door of solidarity syncing with slinking figure before me. My view of her rushing toward the pavement through the cool elevated window. I needn’t ask where did she go, for in my heart I already know.

Spider hands, little lies, laid upon a cotton bed of snowy white. Glancing with glower undressed eyes, posed the thing made mine. Outstretched limbs drowned blood drenched thighs. Sealed with a sinking kiss, violent is a love like this. Wicked is a life like his; one trapped beneath Life’s abyss. I hope you don’t regret it...all I know is haunting me. Speaking whispy words he might just take a knee.

You deserve someone who can light up your soul in a world so dark. Too bad I never learned to play the part. Truly, every notion I think isn’t for you. Fantasy twirls like you want it to; yet if lust is all that you breath, then what air is there left for me?

After she started working full-time downtown, her personality totally changed. In sparkling ways, effervescently she became a glimmering hopeful flame to humanity. No longer turning to the clamoring voices of insanity, she decided to become vocally three. Each alternate piece speaking to a different need. No longer feeling hurried or rushed, she felt it best to keep her treasures hushed. Every sip to the lip began to sing, and as others seen her she resigned to peace. A carbon colored book in which she dotted the weeks of her mind, daily she harbingered the question inside: ‘All of our lives we make decisions. Sometimes good... sometimes disastrous. But, there is one decision that is more important than all the others...What do you want out of life?’

She taught me how to walk but never let me run, so I always picked her starry-eyed feelings undone. In time I thought I could be fine, letting unfamiliar glances flower over wine. But somehow those perfect people never fit me like she did; melting into me like an icy tailored cashmere suit. With my desires now laid to rest, I can have the serpent’s dreams put to bed. Evoking the parts we’ve dimmed within, sometime we must caress our breathlessly honest twin. Breed in me the human in your skins. One more akin to kindness, showing me a place to begin. With Eastern sunrise God’s judgement began, first upon the high-rises then the crammed pavement therein. Each with a face coveted by news casts and morning milk cartons.

Love is a darkroom where negatives develop, and upon your shrine these fears envelope. I thought you’d learn to stand by now with trembled lips upon the ground.Who’s to say you’re just like the rest? But in my own head I place second best.

An armchair, two sofas, in the living room. Pillars paralyzed by affection’s plotted doom. Invisible lofty architect of midding virtue’s fate, with little or too much slid upon his plate. The lure of half sips and ginger kisses dress the foyer. They’ll let him be the judge and I the pleading lawyer. Sojourning to a place less jostled, seeking to nest a settled life as a traveler’s wife. Yet with the ringing of a distant phone, and the grasping of a coat, his look nodded to hit the road. No understanding of a word or a note, he disallowed her to play the radio. Summer’s wind-chime melody danced neighborhood streets. In her drizzled lashes she sought to find the omen in-between.

His cherry-dipped lips dripping empty words unrehearsed. Driving down the red dessert road. He stopped at an olive building perched below a fluorescent beacon motel sign. Clipping the ignition, flinging chiming keys upon the cracked leather seat. Shaky visions of clumsy palms pressed, strolled an innocent mind. Bronzed bodies breathlessly unrested upon foreign twin beds. Circling blades pulsing, recycling the thickened air of tired summers past. Reverberating the muted words from her lips: ‘ Home of the brave, land of the free. But it never felt like that to me. Across the seven seas, is where I wish to be.’

Pink waters, black sand. So much power upon the hand. Flipping through the pages of my mind to regain the daydream, and find you right where I left you. Hot rushing winds of red clay, drifting hazed, suspended for days. Atomized, erased from sweet time. Always in our hearts, replayed in their minds. A m e r i c a.

You dyed your hair and changed your name, to step outside and see your world in flames. Cinder night casts eagle skies. God’s judgement meets cutting lies. A fake marriage under a fake name. Though as long as the other got what they wanted it was just fine. He was using her to break a cycle, she was using him to build character.

Her life from the outside, an endless poly amore which always elusively escaped the willing man’s grasp. She made herself into someone they couldn’t look away from. The one from darkened tombs, and future times vain of sorrow.lLooking toward the man with a thousand faces. The other day I glanced at an empty grave. Little did I know beneath his roses marked my name. A life of losses ends filled with tidal gain.

Who knew it’s only his silver rain that would cleanse my pain.

To achieve joy is a major task, and I’m not sure how much longer I can last. Upon her finger, the memento of a paused vow that will never transpire. Their blood dressed each tender leaf. They’re vines speaking of a now halted drought. Sun blindingly spilling upon death’s darting eyes. Crude lines mimicking the summation of his clandestine face. The face she’d desperately tried to memorize. The one that taunted the blank slate of twilights cresting hours. Angles and edges that frustrated her, naming him unfamiliarity in her mind.

Precious life as washed words in the sand.While poising in his shaking hand the gun, like a magicians ace; paused exclaiming with a telling face, "Our days story has grown too long. But now night’s shadow will right zeal’s wrong." What was the end? I am ashamed not to remember, the chapels glossy hymns vowing in December. Or the panicked thoughts left on summers bed. Just, inconvenient vulnerability.

‘a letter to anyone out there’

Today I walked out an abode that wasn’t mine. To try and see if I could make my mind fine. A marimo moss ball landed into my hand, and pummeled the passing grains of sand. I asked once again to God why I couldn’t be made a man. One who could attempt to work for an affordable life. One in which ingenuity could wipe away my strife. Left to the groveling mercy of less loving men and fearful feminine friends. Don’t think yourself too big or too small, or anything at all. For in the end you will be nothing, no one at all. Only if you find time in the cavern gapping wide, the will to survive; should you try... Try to fashion a happiness which only you will see, cherish, and define. A letter to anyone out there at all: wonder not why you fall, but rather should you get up at all?


About the Creator

Atlas Quest

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