The Fall of Dean Bordeaux

~Orange

light turns on.

Her thoughts appear

like raindrops

falling through the air.

Vision clouded,

feeling surrounded

by,

children laughing

and

people dancing

around within her soul

telling her

to answer…



why’s she crying ~



She couldn't speak

just as Dean was,

she was weak

because…



At the bottom of their bed

they’d let their clothes fall

to the sound of

a present truth,

their present truth.

That lying beneath

their well used sheets

were all things sweet

&

worth the risk

they'd decided to take

all that time ago.

They didn’t question the risk

they only saw

the worth of the bliss.

Bliss…

that they craved so much.

That sent their calloused hands

into a weakened stance

so that what laid

between their sheets

that made them grit their teeth

was all that mattered till…

The after...

When they would lay down beside

each other

&

make plans

for building shelves

upon which they’d place their dreams

or maybe a warm fresh-made pie.

or even...

a cold miss-intentioned lie.

Oh, but that juice,

from those strawberry red lips

that hides

a contradictory well-worn tongue.

A tongue of words and silence alike.

That’s of no worry then.

Bliss was all they felt...

And they imagined,

that would get them through it together,

because,

they were the definition of

forever.





But then:



"Days came as many.

Many came as signs.

Signs not so divine.

Divine were not the grapes.

Grapes that became my wine.

Wine consumed by the bottles.

Bottles of wine after bottles of liquor.

Bottles that made my

world spin...

Spin...

like...

this...

Do I like this?



I had turned the key

locking myself in.

Feeling like my walls were caving in.

As my life rolled by like a bad TV show

I felt, the less

&

less I know.

Scared like a baby

lost as a lady.

Thinking,

I’m not able to hold my own

&

now I have to live alone,

again.



For his desired sleep

was his wish for peace

in his mind that could not find

an escape,

an off switch,

a trap door,

a way to embrace our dreams.

Dreams,

that now seemed illusionary.



To him, it seemed

the only way he could be with me

was as an angel

watching over me.



Despite all my begging

&

pleas.



On a cold November morning

before the sun was up.

He laid next to me,

facing me,

then

his hands went slack,

his lips turned frozen,

as they fell from our last kiss.

I watched him,

watch me,

lose him,

knowing he

chose the choice that he had chosen.

Hauntingly,

his piercing blue eyes not closing

he had swallowed his kill switch.

“Sweet dreams my love”,

were my last words to him.”





“So he had PTSD and OD'd on sleeping pills. In a nutshell. Though your poetic version was amazing as hell.”

“Yeah, I always want to give him his honorable discharge. Saying PTSD and OD seems so junkie.”

“Understandable and agreed. You did his memory justice indeed. While I cannot wrap my mind around choosing to leave over staying with you and working through, I never experienced his hell or stepped a step in his shoes, so I will only be here for you and try to empathize with your blues.”

“Appreciated. And personally noted that I made it through that for the first time to a sobering effect instead of a destabilizing prospect. That’s progress… not enough to change my life view but enough for tonight as to not be mad at you.”

“As was not my intention to do.”

“I would however like some tequila now, limes too. Watching the sympathy on your face, the anxiety is starting to win the race. I need to squash it and kill it and to that end, I need the potent stuff, hurry now, don’t spill it.”

He rolled his eyes… Noting that it was pouring down rain outside, the tequila would take a toll, so there’d be no protest to his couch against the cold. So he obliged with no rotten motives just wanting to keep her dry. Changing the subject to eliminate the possibility she’d cry.

.

.

.

“So how do you know about the slutty lover?”

“She’s the girlfriend of the guy I get my pills from but at the same time I’ve seen her close to many others. She’s farther gone than I, so I’m quite sure I wouldn’t even catch her eye. But that is how I know, she isn’t one to shy away from putting on a show. Makes me wonder if my dealer isn’t also a pimp and ‘emotional healer’. His chosen title, not mine. But I stay out of it cause I truly don’t give a shit. It’s actually kinda funny, how people only see what they wanna see.”

“Yeah, I only saw a hot chick I wouldn’t have minded sucking my dick.”

“What a pig…”

“I’m more mature but still a man, I wear no wig.”

Now Jackie rolled her eyes. “You know… after Dean died… that’s when it all became lies.

No one ever noticed me.

Suddenly,

silently,

sighing,

while inside I was

quickly,

quietly,

dying

showing no signs I was

timidly,

tearlessly,

crying.



It was so straining,

all of the refraining.

Trying to be the perfect portrait

of together.



They never even noticed

my squinting darkening eyes

circling from all these lies.

I helplessly,

automatically,

fed them all a farce

from behind my blackened veil.



They’d say my smile amazed.

Of course

it did, it was

porcelain,

painted,

&

glazed.



They constantly,

contagiously

stared

inspecting for one misplaced hair.

From this,

I formed a hardened shell

to fend off the external hell.



They all thought they knew me,

yet they did not.



Their pain,

never matched

my pain

cause theirs was theirs,

and mine was mine.



I would ask...

How do you compare?

By what measurement?

Their attempts to thought share

became my resentment

&

pretense

for my poised

&

perfected front.”



“Perfected front, huh? So this is all perfected because you're constantly inspected. By who?”

“Before it was the whole lot of ‘em. The Army crew, his friends, what family he had left, even his exes came to play their respects… ha play.. pay” hiccup “they stared and glared, had condescending words to slay.. ha say..” hiccup “every sickenin’, pukin’, gut wrenchin’ day… … ... I’m gonna be si..”

“On it.”

Steadily moving her to the lady's room cause he sensed what was coming. He knew how much he’d watched her consume. When she was done he propped her in a booth, her head lulled… oh, the effects of tequila and truth. He closed up, sacked her like potatoes on his shoulders, and moved her to his quarters. Dropped her down on the couch, took off her shoes, propped her face next to a bucket just in case.

“You like me don’t you?”

“You know I do.”

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, conceited lady.”

“But seriously... You’re mad at me aren’t you?”

“How could I be mad at you, why would I be mad at you? What did you do?”

“I don’t know, but I know something has changed. Should I not have surrendered and told you what I remembered?”

“You can tell me anything you want to, sometimes I just get confused as to what it is you want me to do.”

“Want you to do? Why do you think I want you to do anything? I mean our banter to me is like bling, but other than that I want from you nothing. But why are you trying to save me when I obviously don’t want to be saved?”

“How do you know you don’t want to be saved? Like, who doesn’t want to be saved? Why are you so hung up on this guy like he was your cult leader? Read the news blotter you post out with the way you act and how your actions shout. He was a bleeder and he’s still bleeding you dry. How can you still be so dependent upon that guy.”

“Wow! Seriously? He was my husband. I made vows to him, they meant/ mean something to me and I don’t take it lightly when finding someone who makes a person as happy as he made me." Sitting up she crossed her arms and legs and leaned back in her seat. "I know I had a flawless man who became flawed. Flawed beyond my comprehension or belief. And never did he get better so I could bask in relief. But he wasn’t a player or a drunk or even a connoisseur of whores. He wasn’t usable, losable, or a disposable boy toy. He was a simple man who claimed to like our life's simple plan. He was a quarter in a jukebox, Sunday stroll in a park, long scenic drives in the dark old-fashioned romantic man. Now you wanna condemn me for the drifting thoughts that make me unable to put him away because he’s with me every heart... pounding... gut... wrenching... day. What am I supposed to do with all that but accept it and try not to go insane from it.”

“Really, he made you so happy? He lied to you and then gave you some bullshit that you’d be better off without him, how sappy. Either he is the king of bullshitters, truly willing to die for his cause, or he was extremely dumb for not seeking help to at least try to beat the odds.”

“You’re just my getaway ride.”

“At least I’m here to be your getaway ride. Where’s your husband again? That’s right he died.”

.

.

.

.

.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“I let you and I’m so sorry I hurt you too.”

“I’m so sorry I’ll continue to hurt you.”

“I’m so sorry I’ll continue to let you.”

“Well I guess as long as that’s all clear, wanna bust out some more tequila?”

“I was wondering if you were gonna ask.”

“Seems only fitting since you’re willing and committing.”

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it baby, you’re not fucked up enough for me.”

“And that’s the way it’ll always be.”