Los Angeles, You Dirty Whore

The mornings are the worst. I walk outside my apartment on Argyle. Down past the giant bird tree and I hear the freeway. There is nothing to love on this street. Not my apartment.
Not my boyfriend. Not my car with the window popped out. Today, I'm starting fresh. I'm not going to talk to him anymore. He's always like, where were you, who were you with and what did you let him do to you. But, in those questions is an accusation which is none of his business. We moved from there to a place on Spaulding, right near where Kurt Cobain supposedly had an apartment during his few times in L.A. The place was garbage and we had no style to us. Our clothes stayed in their hefty bags. We pulled stuff out whenever the mood struck us. We thought we had more style than we did. We had style to our fighting if you can call it that. We both wore long black trench coats. I only wore dresses then. I also had a shirt I remember wearing that was pale blue cotton with a little lace at the top. It was sleeveless, because I was hot all the time. We had no air conditioner. No bed. We slept on a mattress pulled out into the middle of the living room. We played music from a ghetto blaster, but the music was great. New York Dolls mostly. I dressed him up in a slip and we danced for hours, drinking wine straight out of the bottle. Making out. Screaming passion at the top of our lungs. We read to each other by candlelight. Told each other lies. Went to sex clubs, to see what they did there. But, I have to tell you, they did nothing. They would tie each other up and humiliate each other, but it was a game to them. Whatever me and my boyfriend were doing was no game. He hated me more than anyone I can remember. Except for that one guy a few years back. The one who kept breaking up with me and then stalking me in his little red ski cap and tiny white car. Circling the block for hours, to see what I was doing or who I was with. Back to the other guy. We played house. We were together in different apartments for two years. It was an awful hell. I loved him and I couldn't get away from him, but he just wanted me to be different. We did drugs together, in some guy's house and then he (my boyfriend) would disappear for days with me waiting at the window. It was when pagers existed and no one had a cell phone. But, how could it matter? The city came alive when I was with him. He showed me things I had never seen before. We drank with bums outside on our stoop. Not that Los Angeles has stoops. But, you get the picture. We had people over. Some of them homeless for years, others trust funder millionaires who fell in love with one of us and begged us to stay. They paid our rent and gave us jewelry, jackets, cars. We never liked them better than we liked each other even when they were more beautiful. More damaged. More worthy of being saved. Neither one of us could get off enough, not for our lack of trying. We tried everything. Maybe we hated each other or we smelled the thing underneath it all---we were just killing time, not a part of life. This was the most beautiful man I had ever known, and smarter than almost anyone, but he was tormented. He lay crying in the middle of the street, begging for forgiveness after popping my tires. His parents would pay after these crimes or one of our little friends would pay. He went to jail a lot for fighting. Outside Canter's. Outside Max's. Outside Frolic Room I and II. But, I loved his bones. His cheekbones and the way he was so skinny he fit into my tops. He would go into the bathroom and cut lines in his chest and come out saying, "See what you made me do?" He had thousands of scars all over his beautiful chest. I remember the last thing I ever said to him was, "I don't love you anymore." I don't know where he is, or what I would say to him if I saw him, but I still think of him. I can't help it.