I
Tracy has long hair lazy eyes that swivel to look at me in the darkness.
I'm the sixth number in her telephone book. She tries everything and everyone once. She wants me to do her up the ass. She leaves fingernails on my back and fingerprints on my shirt. Help, I can't get out.
Tracy exudes knowingness and cynicism to impress, and she can't turn it off. She puts me down, she disapproves. I'm not good enough for her. She's doing me a favour. She doesn't know why she likes me, she jokes that I am a disease.
I'm shattered. I'm lost. I want to swallow every inch of her, feel her skin under mine, till I choke and suffocate. I'm just a worm on a hook.
II
I give Tracy problems and she fixes them, for me, for me. She knows better. I thank her. She listens and wraps herself around me like a blanket. I'm a baby. She soothes my hair and wipes my face. I drool.
I can't do without Tracy. She gives me reasons to live. I spend the entire day searching for them while she taps her feet and looks at photographs of women, sprawls in waiting rooms I cannot enter.
Tracy hurts herself just so she can redeem me. She's a lamb crucified on my behalf, and I owe her kisses and money.
III
Tracy takes me in only after I've evicted myself.
I'm not Tracy's first. He was a bastard, she hates him, he was the best she ever had. He precedes me. He's the one Tracy will tell people about. He comes when I'm not there; she's crying by the time I get home.
Tracy's tears prickle my neck like glass. I'm important to her, she needs to sleep with me. I don't know if Tracy is telling the truth, or if she feels sorry. I'm on her schedule, cancelled and written in again.
I'm tired. I still want Tracy to love me. I still want Tracy to tell me we should be together. I still want to send her letters in poor handwriting. No one compares, but she strolls further and further away. I tell myself to leave her in the frost, under a dead tree, but I forget.
