Disappointment

Disappointment

Disappointment is rude, that much is clear. He comes in the place of Jubilance, uninvited, after I’ve already lit my favorite candles, poured my favorite wine, and sprinkled crimson petals over the bed spread. Disappointment is a regular, but I look forward to the days were Gratification or Appreciation come in his place; I live for those days. Disappointment wears leather, and he punches me in the stomach almost every time I see him. And when he doesn’t, he shoves his face into mine attempting to intimidate me; I can only just avoid him. He links his arm with mine, laughing and shouting as we walk down the street; I, bashful of his presence. When I ask him, in a whisper, to stop yelling, he looks at me, grins, and throws daggers fashioned from words at my heart. Then he shows everyone what he did to me, like game he just killed.

Disappointment doesn’t have a job, and for that I pity him. However, when he comes to my doorstep, mumbling something about needing a place to stay; I have no choice. None of us want to host Disappointment. He is never late, never on time, always early. He is awkward. Some suspect that he killed Sanguine. I know he did; her sanguine blood still lines my basement walls, reminding me of something that I had, but can’t have.

Disappointment plays with his food, not knowing what to do with it, much to the chagrin of his mother, Misery. He’s brusque, that’s for sure, only stopping for a short time, but staying for a while. In fact, most of the time, we are taught to except him. But all of us hope to be the one that doesn’t have to house him. That’s why we keep living, keep trying. He sends little parts of himself, fingernails or hairs, in envelopes or through the phone.  Disappointment is a road end, telling you that either the main road is a ways down, or that you took a wrong turn. Disappointment likes Shakespeare, and he reads Shakespeare while wondering the streets, bellowing verses like everyone can hear, like anyone is listening. Sometimes, if the sun is in the right spot, and the wind blows in your direction, you can hear him sobbing, sipping bourbon, and asking “Why?”