Rose Garden Blues
The familiar tune of the Westside trumpeter: you old friend? Here when I need you the most?
The last hour of the day I called out sick (of your shit) and found myself at the rose garden overlooking the city. Doused in sun. What a picture. I caught a man taking a photo of me sniffing a flower.
So, what has been presented to me time and time again arrived this afternoon with a bang, wrapped in a pretty paper. The silver platter only passed me by, no chance to reject it.
âI stand behind youâ, I said. Iâm sick. There is a black bruise on my arm that I covered with sleeves in the heat. I was bitten hard, not by a dog but a man in a white room with a tall, angled ceiling. I stared up at the dark wooden planks with my head titled back over the bed, but mostly I looked into him.
âYou were so excited when I took off my shirt, it was cuteâ. And I realized where I was, that some would see this as wrong and I did in a way for just that moment in the bathroom light. I begged him to do it again, more. Am I a girl still or a woman?
Itâs been sneaking up on him, Iâve felt it and itâs changed my life. He shouldnât put you in this position, my friends told me. I leaned in. I grabbed and pulled like I did the man in the room, please. You know what I need. When confronted I chose to let go of my other favorite vice. This is me wanting to change, do you see it? This is me trying.
I defend it till the last drop. When I was shown the email, up to and including termination, my heart sunk; I thought this day might come. He said he doesnât care who knows and I laugh to myself, âyouâre too confidentâ. How could it ever be you? You, who plays by your own rules and whose words to me set off alarms with everyone I tell, and so I stop telling. I put down the bottle instead and go out to get hurt so good that I come home bruised and bleeding. âThank youâ, he said. âYou guys are so wonderfulâ. Thatâs not quite how I feel.