Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Black Out Confessions

Today I received a letter, from someone who I am sure loves me, but just can’t say it, at least not sober.  And unfortunately this letter was written sober, I know because he signed it “sincerely,” the same way one signs a complaint letter to an airline for losing his luggage.

Sober he can say many things like, “You know how I feel about you”, “You mean the world to me”, “I don’t have to say it”, “I appreciate you so much”, and blah blah blah as if he is the only orator of these words.  As if he were the only King of love brand-name  knock-offs.  As if he is the only one to mask his heart with a thesaurus of phrases that can never be used against him in a court of law.

I am not the type of person that needs to be told she is loved.  I have grown accustom to those words coming along with other lies, like “I didn’t mean it”, “It’s not the same”, “It was a mistake” and “Just kidding”.  However  it is more insult than endearment when hearing it through a wall of empty beer glasses.

a night to forget

Drunk his words are meant to haunt and keep me from sleep.  When he is drunk he calls me a trickster, the girl that makes him fall in love, makes him forget that she can never have children.  Worse yet makes him forget the love, must be planned like careers, taxes, and time shares.  Drunk his hand finds mine, and there is always the moment when he swears that he means each word, and I only need to check his blood shot eyes to read the real map to his heart.  It is lined with apologies for never being the man he should be for me, and promises that the next time when  he says he loves me, it will be sober.  It is this “I love you” That matters.  The words that come before he has to explain it was only the black out talking.  Before he must explain that love comes in many forms, and his lips were confused about which form they were trying to create.

There’s always the argument that what was said drunk was not meant.  The alcohol was possessing its intakers tongue like the holy spirit.  A religious experience ending in a morning of sweat and chills that shift him back into sobriety.  Anything said was a black out confession, it had to be.    He has already promised love to someone else, sober.  She deserved it.  Marked his sincerity by the curvature of her child-bearing hips.  He can’t take back the love he garnered for her in sobriety and hand it over to some whore that only deserves intoxicated words of love that stumble into walls and trip over cracks in the sidewalks at 1:28am.

But keeps his whore near to remind him that medical studies show  alcohol is the only truth serum he will ever know.  Keep her near so his conscience can never rest.  Keep her near so she can never be free to hear the words he says from a sober man.

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