Performance

walking with my head down, kicking a stone, then a piece of paper that flipped itself over in a desperate attempt to get away from my violent attacks, and words: a business card, an appointment time, chicken-scratch of a psychologist, here, on the ground.

i bent over and picked the saving grace up, wondered who had thrown it away, if she'd already thrown it all away, if the body had been dumped, and where. buried ten feet from the coast in a shallow grave? (the dog finds the remains, but we have to wait for confirmation. we know it's her, we know her parents' entire world has come crashing down, we know the war is right here, but we have to wait for confirmation.) dumped? or placed on the floor on her own accord, rather than that of a monster we set free with open arms. dumped?

and dumping is good, i take dumps, and the action brings rewards: pins for a letterman's jacket, making me feel good about myself and making my father proud. taking a shit before a race, a common, unspoken act, our secret weapon: i'd hold the door for lauren and she'd hold it for me, and when people asked how we always won, they'd receive a collective shrug.

acts that we keep to ourselves and never tell anyone are the acts that both define and destroy. on our backs or in a stall, in a car or the middle of the road, or both, we're mysteries to each other. planned executions, planned violations, planned mistakes and planned failures. we exhaust our sincerity in songs and on hallmark cards, nothing left at the end of the day but sweat and empty words, blank stares, collective shrugs, tattered remains, but somehow, i keep on winning.