Miss Anonymous, Miss Heartbreaker

Miss Anonymous, Miss Heartbreaker

By Shaire Blythe

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

I get it,

I get it.

I am sorry.

May I apologize on her behalf?

Miss Anonymous. Miss Heartbreaker.

She had no right, but all the free will.

You do know it's not her fault, right?

Her Papa was a rolling stone.

Her Mama was searching for love in the wrong places,

She could hear the silent cries through the wooden boards, the forcefulness of bodies crashing into each other, night after night.

That one was Tim, John or Reggie,

And those were Cee, Rico or Mitch --

there were so many.

And maybe, just maybe, her Mama wasn't the only one with rough hands hiking up her Sunday dress.

Her Mama had paper hearts in her eyes,

She was too blind to see.

If it wasn't her Mama or Papa, then it was Mister Perfect.

He strolled into town at a blossoming age,

She was just ripe enough for him to steal a taste.

But it was only a taste.

Don't they say, "Don't start what you know you won't finish"?

Love letters were smeared with tears, the ink of 'ol-time clichés blended into one another,

Becoming lost,

Dead to her.

And maybe, just maybe, she tried again and again and again and again.

You know, some do give up after the first time.

Then she met you.

Damn her for meeting you.

You fell all in love.

You thought she was the one.

Damn her for taking such a pure soul for late-night rides to the riverfront,

Tugging you to the backseat of her Camry,

And rocking not merely the car, but your mind.

I get it,

I get it.

Can I say I am sorry that she did the same to Bobbie, Jack and Leon too?

And what about Sam, Elijah and Coby?

Is it okay to apologize on her behalf,

Or are my words not good enough to you?

Must I hunt Miss Anonymous, Miss Heartbreaker down,

drag her back to you, because she told you she loved you and didn't mean it,

And left you in shadowed rooms, curtains drawn,

unshaven face and no appetite?

Or maybe, just maybe, no one got that side, right?

You were shouting, "Forget that ho," with your boys wilding by your side,

popping bottles in house party basements,

Grabbing at girls asses hanging out of their dresses,

and getting one or two to join you in the bathroom that reeks of Amsterdam,

And then we met.

It was never a choice, all by chance.

But we met.

I get it,

I get it.

I am sorry.

I couldn't help but listen to the edges of your voice,

even if they were sweet nothings,

But Miss Anonymous, Miss Heartbreaker had taught you how to sugarcoat your sentences and make them delightful,

You were giving more than just a taste.

I get it,

I get it.

I am sorry.

You took my hand and ran us through gardens that seemed to have no ends,

Charmingly laughing, along the way,

gazing over your shoulder at me,

Trusting,

Loving.

I got the pleasure of feeling you let go.

One finger unhooked at a time.

I couldn't be,

That girl.

I wasn't that girl.

No violin to play,

No orchestra to orchestrate,

No looking away just for the sake of being able to say, "I have a man."

What man?

Whose man?

Because what about Jessica, Leah, Miranda,

Emily, Sasha and Keirra?

I get it,

I get it.

I am sorry.

You won't apologize on your behalf.

Mister Anonymous. Mister Heartbreaker.

You had no right, but all the free will.

But it's not your fault, right?