Poetry By
Cameron Witbeck
Published on: 2/26/2010
Birthday
"I have a history of bad birthdays," you say, you're trying to sound witty or sophisticated. Just like, you imagine, the characters from the novels he reads alone. He doesn't love you, you know that. But it's your birthday and "Don't I look pretty," you think. You want to force him to talk, to share something. You think about digging your well-manicured nails into his patchy, amber beard and manipulating his lips like a marionette. But you don't. You never even open your hands, you keep them clenched tightly by your side and maybe your mother was right, that this silence is better than emptiness because you can feel it, hold it in your mouth and spit it like water from a stone fountain in an Italian plaza that he has never taken you to. You excuse yourself, and in the bathroom you bare your teeth at your reflection. "Happy birthday to you," and you notice a smear of red against a tooth, your tongue wiggles like a worm, working away the waxy taste of the lipstick. In the living room he's moved to the couch. He's reading and smoking even though you've asked him not to.
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