Play Me

I know you.

I've sought you out, found you, fucked you, loved you.

I can tell who you are by the perfect way your hair is mussed, tousled about your forehead, fluttering dark brown, shrouding luminous dark brown eyes. I can tell by the white stitching in your indigo denim jacket and the way you arrange your albums chronologically instead of alphabetically. I can tell by your thick black rimmed glasses that I loved removing and setting on your nightstand next to your classic rock tableture and empty cans of PBR. I can tell a mile coming.

I know you.

And I keep returning because of the pedestals you build for me and so to keep the throne of your creation I'll recreate myself vacant and simple. Easy.
I'll play your perfect princess, your paper doll you prefer draped in vintage t-shirts and studded belts ready to be paraded around at your shows.

You love this, and you love when I kiss you prettily stage left after your set, you love when I snake my arm about your waist and into your back pocket as we're leaving the venue. You love to see me out back swilling beers with your band mates lounging on the bumper of your van.

You love to see me in your bed, and it's there where everything is quiet, when everything is still that I lay sleepily in among your mis-matched sheets, my arms folded under my cheek, an errant lip of your bedspread draped across the arc of my upturned hip and still I know you wish I was her. I know you, and I've seen you--I've seen you offer her more grace than you ever would me, hold her more gently, strum her softly make her sing and scream and now I'm screaming because with you I will always come second, and I can't stand to see her resting in your lap where I should be, her neck cradled in your palm, her heartstrings stretched from fret to fret and I know she is your only love.

I've sought you out, found you, fucked you, loved you--and I am fucking done with you, all of you.

So bring me a wordsmith, a painter, an indie film maker, but no more of you, because I know you, I know all of you and I refuse to lay still while you use her to turn my secrets into songs, stay quiet while you name me your muse, while you ignore my goals and use my vision to fuel yours. While you fuck me and love her. Play her. Lay down. Fuck her.
Play me.


Anonymous said...

dude... it was cause we were swillin down the cheap pinot, yo.

lay off the 5am, yo.

Milkshake said...

Is that Davey? I think so.

A Cranky Old Jew said...

That was really enjoyable reading. Like, if I shut my eyes and ignored all the references you made to yourself as a female, I could almost picture you being a guy. Good job.

Much love,

~PhoenixRising said...

Nah... davey wouldn't post an anonymous comment... his cheap-wine-drinking alter ego might, but not good ole wholesome davey. He's too sophisticated for that kind of thing...

Though I really dug this piece, I was just at a hectic day of work, doing, believe it or not, work. A rarity no more. Now that we are down one person in our office, it seems my lazy summer days spent reading blogs and posting comments has come to an end, though I do have my secret half-hour that I spend in the office, doing just that, before the rest of the office minions arrive and we get down to the dirty job of making things work so people don't have to think about them...

Anyway, always good to recieve a call, even if it is at 5am... :)

charles.bukowski.costanza said...

god you do make me smile miss. madam. i am ready to get down to the grit and have a conversation i think. but this is no small undertaking, the question of when our cosmic clocks will align and we'll both be a) awake b) not working c) not mid-coitus and d) nor pre- nor post-coitus -- this is a mystery. meantime, know that i am thinking about you and love you.

..no, wait, that's gross: i don't love you.

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