By Roseanna Frechette
You drag yourself up the stairs like some kind of rock star zombie on Benzos from heaven. “WTF!!!” you have just texted an absentee lover and then failed to hit send because you know better than to send a text message when you are a zombie on Benzos. Regardless if they are from heaven or not.
Take a breath. A long slow deep breath. If there’s one thing you know for sure it’s that you are the only person you can truly count on. The only person that is riding this surfboard—climbing this rock wall—snowboarding a mountain of moguls—(and every other cheesy adventure-athlete metaphor you can think of) with you, every second of every day. ‘Til death do you part. So if you are gonna what-the-fuck someone, it really should just be yourself.
Oh yeah, and you also know you are not a zombie and you would never take Benzos.
Nevertheless, here’s what you tell yourself as you gaze into your own shy reflection in hall mirror:
“She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not.”
“Who are you talking to?” your reflection calls out. “You” —your sassy
He does not love you. Or so he has said though instinct disagrees. Semantics are cold. Love is not. What is love?… Your mind replays the gray thought that had you basement-bound on a clear sky night.
“Love yourselves” ~ is perhaps what Jesus meant when he said “heal
yourselves,” you now muse.
She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not.
You catch yourself winking at your own reflection. Is that narcissistic behavior? You wonder. Okay then let’s replay it. That wink. Certainly there’s a breath of appreciation to be seen. Fond glint in the eye for what is being beheld. And warmth.
Alrighty then. You catch yourself winking at your own reflection. Again. Is that narcissistic behavior? You wonder for one second. But you know snap straight up…it is not.
What The Fuck!!! (in red) you are compelled to write on the mirror with an old unused tube of hideous lipstick. There it is. All spelled out in a wanky wonky expired sort of sexy calligraphy. And You. Are simply. A rebel. A hideous-red lipstick rebel. For love.
Roseanna Frechette is a longtime member of Denver’s thriving bohemian underground. Spoken word performer and host as well as multi-genre writer, her work has featured at galleries, rock stages, and festivals including Poetry Rodeo, Boulder Fringe, and Arise. Former publisher of Rosebud Forum, she holds great passion for the power of small press and the beauty of literary originality.