Cardiomyopathy

Cardiomyopathy: dying of a broken heart. I was born with a broken heart. Because my mother never loved me. Because my father, the first man who ever loved me abandoned me. Paved the path for many men to follow.

You might say, “Oh now I’m sure your mother loves you! How couldn’t she?”  I could tell in the womb. When the wine came down, we got drunk together. Truth serum. And as I got older, she told me over the years, repeatedly so I wouldn’t forget, “I never wanted children. But your daddy sure did.”

He left and didn’t return for years.

I was a dog someone received as a Christmas gift but couldn’t take care of.

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Apathy has saved me from hurt at times. Being unaffected by people has its perks. Life is easier when you can fake it. My existence is a fake orgasm.

Only my eldest sister knows this. Cold, isolated, apathetic. I am married to the night. All I know is suffering. All the love I’ve ever known is likened to a dark secret, tucked away in murky caves in my left ventricle. Dark and deep. Neruda. Between the shadow and the soul.

A year ago I learned a secret secret about myself. I’ll tell you if you promise not to tell anyone. Promise me. Cross your heart, hope to die.

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I bleed black. Bleeeeed black.

On December 31st I lost it. I held it in my hands. Black blood dripping down my legs, over my ankles. Onto my feet and onto the floor. I held it in my hands. Black mass.

Is it breathing?

No.

Can it hear me? 

I pled, “Come back. Come back come back come back come back.”

Writhed on the floor. Shit in the air. Vomit choking me out of a deep sleep.

Bleeding black. Standing in the store bleeding through my clothes, the warm insides meeting the cold outsides.

Black blood dying my blue jeans. Blue dreams. Delirium Tremens forced me here. Heroin forced me here. My addiction and anothers has raped me again. Bright lights accentuate my sodden clothes at the Family Dollar and I don’t speak enough Spanish to ask if I can skip ahead in line.
I walked home. A waddle. It was cold. My legs were cold.

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I changed my clothes, put on a new pad, sat on the couch, found my doctors number, stood up. Black blood everywhere. Suede couch, vintage. Garbage picked on a summer day. Called my father to pick it up. It was too low to the ground.

Blood blood blood.

Fall out of me.

Solid mass.

Avalanche.

Backsplash.

Rejection.