The Butcher

Honey, I know you believe in the power of numbers. But that army of skeletons you're dragging around are just dead meat. (And, you honey—you are their butcher).

All those women you loved are now just imprints, hollow cones of the people they used to be. They play no big part in your stories, submit no grand narrative to your past. When you talk about all those girls you used to know, you never make me laugh and you never make me smile and you never make me interested. You make me sad.

(Who carries around a spluttered piñata?)

Baby, the party is over. Baby, the party has ended. Baby, the music has stopped. And now you face the silence: that big, empty space. Me. Like a ghost of bitches past, I've come up, jumped up menacingly from the bottom of your bed, demanding margaritas and orgasms. (Sorry, this is just what I'm into.)

And like the furious itch that needs to be scratched, you keep drawing blood until eventually, I see, you just need to keep hurting yourself. And my role in all of this, well... I'm just an unqualified nurse. 

Come closer baby: blood is thicker than water.

An excerpt from the fictional short stories, Conversations About Paradise.