Snowball had the loathing something chronic. She’d smashed all her mirrors in iconoclast and said she’d pan my windows too if I didn’t lick her wounds. Those stigmata can be tricky. The self inflicted are often the last wounds to heal. Least said, soonest mended, so they said back then.
She came on like a breath of sunshine, but she had dark roots. I’d been keeping a beady on her peroxide explosion; altruistically fucking her from time to time. I knew it was a mistake, but we are only granted a finite number of mistakes. There’s no point turning away a gift horse. It’s not every day someone gifts you a horse.
I was pretty liberal with the advice, but more frugal with my affections. I like to think of myself as a coward. That’s the best spin I can weave from my actions. I couldn’t dive in, because I can’t fucking swim. So, I turned away. At the crucial moment I closed my eyes, but I still heard her cries. I still hear them now.
I guess that in her story I was yet another disappointment in a series of disappointments. Was I a user, an abuser, or just a man of straw? I’m not the judge of that. For my part, her voice is one of many asking the same question. Do you now, or did you ever, possess an ounce of soul?