Big bird bitch
‘Fuck you, you fuckin’ big bird bitch. You arsehole, you fuckhead.’ He goes outside and smashes the small dope plant that has sprouted in the lawn, the one I showed him ten minutes ago, before I said I was unhappy. His boots grind it into the dirt, one foot after the other. ‘You’re fuckin’ miserable, you fuckwit. You’re never fuckin’ happy.’
I stare at him, keeping my face as blank as possible. Is this true? I have been told this many times. Am I never happy? Sometimes I feel happy. I think.
My eyes are wide because I don’t cry. Sometimes I do. I can tell by the salt in my mouth. The fact that my cheeks are wet. I’m not allowed to be unhappy. So I try not to cry.
I don’t think he is happy. He says he is though. Some things that make me think he’s not are; the smashed phone; the hole in the wall; the cold feeling in the air between us.
I am fucked, I am lazy, why am I so tired, I haven’t done anything all week, what the fuck’s wrong with me…that’s right. I’m a fuckin’ junkie, a no friend’s, no good junkie. Fuckin’ big bird bitch.
He’s taking my car and he’s going. The front door slams shut. The fragile glass never breaks.