My husband pawned his wedding ring for $275 two months after I gave it to him. He drank the money and fell asleep on Avenue B. When he came home the next day, he lied about everything. He lied about where the ring was. He lied about the drinking.
He lied. Again.
I tenderly removed my ring and tucked it in the silk-lined box I saved after purchasing the set I couldn’t afford. The money he took from a grey-eyed woman with sweaty hands was nowhere near what I paid. What I’m still paying back.
A week after it occurs, I realize I can no longer keep a piece of jewelry that bears no meaning. My therapist says my fear of rejection is what caused it all.
“You are too forgiving,” she said brushing wispy bangs from her face. “You’re the most forgiving person I know.”
I came to New York City to fade into the streets after I lost my soul mate in Australia because of a fatal accident. People always tell you that accidents happen. They leave out the statistics of people who actual survive them.
My Soul Mate is an unfortunate statistic. I am starting to understand that I am too. That he and I always have been. It’s part of who we are. Continue reading
I came across this piece from 2003 today, written after I left the city for what would end up being a year, or nine…
I left New York City. It was the day after a spider-legged woman stepped out of a stretch limousine, nearly tripped over a homeless man, and entered into an exhibit in SOHO to decide what starving painter she would feed with her dead husband’s money. The owners of the studio seemed so pleased with the turn out.
My shoulders rolled. To a back crack
Today. For the first time. I thought
Of you. And him. And life. And me.
A solution of we. That you were never
Part of. Belief in one life. Was
Not good enough for your standard.
He arrived. Strong hands. Carved back. Honest
Like everything. You think you are
Above. I rose. And fell. I skinned
Knees. Elbows. Shins. Soul. While
You allowed and gloated within how
Tender my scrapes stay. And he kisses
Every broken piece.
This morning I wrote a letter to my pen pal in Australia. We bumped into each other one day and have been in love ever since. When you believe you’re from outer space, and you run into someone with similar understanding – you essentially recognize each other immediately.
It’s been 16 days since I busted my foot. I’m still bloody icing it. My best friend and I were laughing last night that I continue to use the “sandwich pack” blue gel cooler that an angel appeared and provided me with the morning I crawled down to the lobby of my building at 4am to ask, “Ummm… is there a hospital around?” Continue reading
FollowMeToNYC is a creative processing ground which expresses individual ideas that often change with the tides. Naturally, these ideas do not reflect those of any of my employers, or anyone else you might see me wandering down the street with one day.