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Do you ever think of me, Bonnie?

februarie 6, 2009


We were alone and spiteful. Two numb kids, so different from each other, bound by godknowswhat kind of chemistry. You ran away from home and came to live with me for a while.

We used to smoke a lot of dope with my gay neighbour, the one who spoke Hebrew and loved to watch us lick lollipops. We danced on Bregovic music in his bed and drank his flatmate’s whisky. I was damned scared the day he went nuts and was kicked out of the building after trying to set the whole fucking place on fire. You weren’t there that day. You returned later and I was shaking and you embraced me. Then we went shoplifting again.

We were stealing from supermarkets, thinking we were screwing the system, but we were actually robbing money from the damn wretched workers. Well, it’s never too late to learn. I had butterflies in my stomach as you sneaked food in your backpack, butterflies in my stomach when we got home and ate it.

I loved you when you stole that book for me. I wanted to kiss your neck, but I was scared and could not move. I was so sure they’ll catch us this time, that I was cold as you held my hand and pulled me out of the shop. But no one ever caught us. We were Bonnie and Bonnie. No Clyde. And no such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Just together.

Forever lost between the Mounts of Piety, you kept pawning all your mother’s jewels and I kept borrowing money from people to recover them and save your ass all the time, before your mother killed you. I had never thought I would meet a brat who’s more irresponsible than me.

Still, the excitement nearly killed me as we walked hand in hand on the streets, from one pawn house to another, recovering jewel by jewel. The sparkle in your eye.

You undressing me in my room and kissing me in front of the window, as neighbours gasped, then collapsing on the floor, our bodies shaking with laughter.

You smoking dope on my bed, with your perfect small tits compressed by that pathetic bra that was supposed to lift them and make them seem bigger.

You were my dumb beautiful pathetic crazy lost slutty lover substitute.

I remember all those nights spent in internet cafes, playing network games, paid by your mother’s rings and bracelets. Your raspy, annoying voice. Your awful tastes in music, which I always mocked. Your horrible make-up and short skirts, which made me feel a strange compassion for you.

I loved your ways until you applied them onto me. Then I felt like hurting you, like knocking the teeth out that stupid mouth of yours. I craved to see your pretty little nose bleeding. But I did nothing.

And then there was no more Bonnie. Just me, peaceful, listening to Portishead.

Monday January 5, 2009

3 comentarii leave one →
  1. februarie 6, 2009 5:10 pm

    aaaaa, mai ai o luna! faster.

    tare mi-a placut postul asta. si m-am gandit asa: cate persoane bizare, vulgare, rele, bune, frumoase, nenorocite pe viata, tipatoare ajungem sa cunoastem si tot reusim sa zicem ceva al nostru despre ele. ca pana la urma in arta nu exista togheter, decat tu listening to portishead.

  2. februarie 6, 2009 5:11 pm

    really freaky picture, btw :))

  3. februarie 9, 2009 9:37 am

    i love this pic. e a unui artist japonez care-mi place mult, dar am lapsus in clipa asta. cand ma va trazni numele lui ca un fulger, cum se intampla cu lapsusurile astea, o sa-ti spun :)

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