Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • the last time i saw you was in chicago.
    one of those blurry nights when the city is so cold that all you want to do is hustle into the small corners inside.
    cozy up and talk.
    wait it out.
    my eyes tear and freeze over.

    i left you there, downtown at a 3 am pizza parlor.
    got in my car and drove back home, unscathed.
    i no longer believed in family or cared at all what everyone said about me.
    tell me who i am to you.
    "your mother is such a bitch."
    call out my name in a way that i will understand you.
    "she seemed to take care of you more than yours ever did."

    flashback to the lake and baby blue gills and my daddy frying you up fish pancakes.
    flashback to you falling in front of pretty boys pretending to be terrible at waterskiing.
    pratfall for attention.
    running "cold november rain" miles with you, headphones deep in guns and roses.
    blue hair and sweden and boys, boys, boys.

    you look as if i just slapped you across the mouth.
    fuck off, all of you, I'm going home.
    these fabrics are forged so strong.
    nothing ever tears.

    outside in the cold, he apologized.
    sobered up quickly at the sign of a scene.
    got too close to my face and intently asked me, "do we get to start over again?"
    warmly, concerned. ((he did care about you, jezebel))
    i believed him, a fool in over his god-damn head.
    i said i know that love isn't easy.

    of course.
    he pressed further, making sure.
    of course we can start over.
    this is how it works.

    i never saw you alive again.
    bloated in a casket and then lowered into the ground
    I sung, silently, " i won't forget to put roses on your grave"
    & wore red lipstick and oversized sunglasses just for the occasion.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.