Opus 13

The world is spinning and you refuse to fall off. Yesterday, you stabbed a crooked finger into my hidden diary criticized my Fascist inflections - debated my scribblings on Marxism, noted the notations indicating Munchausen by Proxy and then choked and lamented upon vague references I made concerning Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Cruella De Vil and Hitler. You literally littered through my private Pandora’s box of personal prose and poetry - with an unbridled crazed compulsion and without my permissible permission. Pointing to bold typed words, such as “ebony” and “vacuous” and “sociopath” and the one you couldn’t evenly pronounce – “phlegmatic.” You stomped your hot heavy hooves - screaming with the dire urgency of a rape victim: “What the hell are you talking about?” It didn’t take very long before I simply shrugged, slugged the remaining remains of my Rolling Rock, took your index finger guided it across your ratted sweater and placed it upon your hopeless, hapless heart.