BAD BLOOD by HAZEL CUMMINGS

you tell me that your body is a graveyard with no tombstones, and i tell you that i furnished my apartment with things that i found in the street. i say, the couch you're sitting on... i found that in the street. it didn't have a free sign, i just understood the shake of things.

you want to talk about your sex life, but i do not want to talk about your sex life. you ignore this, tell me about penises you have encountered, starting with the most recent and then working your way back to when we were still in high school, a time when people didn't understand how we were twins because you were so pretty and i was not-so-pretty, and you were a singer with what was often described as dancer's legs, and i was not-so-much-a-singer with legs that no one even bothered to describe, at least not in my presence. i have heard this list of dicks a thousand times, and it is always the same, minus, of course, the few new ones you have added, but you still perform the monologue as if it were something that was coming to you gradually. eventually you tell me that herpes holds onto a person the same as second degree burns, and i tell you that if we go to bed early enough we can stop and get breakfast before i have to be to work.

you, of course, want to talk about our father, and i, of course, do not want to talk about our father. i tell you that i've moved past all that, and that the only way that i would be interested in talking about him is if he had somehow set aside enough money to pay me back for the car i bought him, the car he let the law take away because he was too proud to call a taxi. you ignore me, like always, you ignore me, and say, i never could understand why he only molested you, without even bothering to try and hide the jealousy in your voice.

 

POSTED ON SEPTEMBER 15, 2011