Tell Me How Far You Would Go For Love

Breathe

My name is Blue, soft like the sky. Slim profile, pearly teeth, curly hair, and long legs. I grew up in the Hamptons, from the side of town where the rich, white folks live. You drive by in luxurious cars, passing houses worth millions of dollars. My daddy was a white man who owned several buildings and businesses in several different locations around the world. He was never really around much because he'd always be away on business retreats, but I never complained of his absence because I liked nice things. I enjoy the special treatment of being able to shop in designer stores and buy whatever I want. Fly out to Dubai then spend another night in Paris. My mama, on the other hand, was a black woman. Though I don't remember much, I do know that we had a bond tighter than Bonnie & Clyde. Years ago, on my parents' 13th anniversary, mama came home and found my daddy sleeping in bed with another woman who was his secretary. Mamma snapped and beat the woman until she was unconscious. Shortly after, she reached for her .44 caliber revolver that she had always kept in her pantyhose draw and shot the woman dead. The bullet pierced straight through her Armenian head. Mamma had officially went ballistic and reached to release her animosity on her filthy cheater of a husband, but he grabbed her arms just in time and snatched the revolver right out of her hands. Neighbors who had heard the commotion called the police, who arrived immediately and taken mamma away in handcuffs. As she walked out that door, I couldn't imagine that, that would be the last memory I would have of my mamma. She had this distinct look of evil and vengeance on her face as the blood of that woman was on her hands and body. She looked so cold and muttered that she loved me and I would be her favorite girl forever. Mamma was institutionalized at a mental facility, which functioned very much like a prison. She sent letters and wrote to me asking me to send her pictures of how beautiful I had grown up to be. I knew that my mamma was real depressed and blamed herself for my daddy's affair. But after a while, the letters stopped coming and the word had gotten back to me that she committed suicide. I truly felt like I had no one and that the closest thing to me was gone. Who was gonna love me now?

    Years seemed to fly by faster than my childhood and now I can say that I'm 30 years old, living and breathing. I'm a business woman who travels a lot and makes a lot of money. My father made me scared to love a man, which is why now I go to sleep and wake up in a different man's bed. But I love that shit! I meet new people everyday whether I'm out in Peru representing a new company or in Vegas at the casino, drinking my problems away. I recently slept with this French man who is engaged to his fiance, and has a baby on the way, but that didn't mean much to me. We had met at Vdara, he complimented me on how beautiful I am and said to me that, "A female so beautiful like you deserves the world!" My heart melted, and breathing had become almost difficult. His mien was so unique and his hands were manly. As I begin to reminisce, I can feel myself getting turned on all over again. He held doors open for me, paid for our dates, and he held me. I felt secure in my own habitat. Though I didn't know much about his past or things that I should've probably discussed out of interest, such as his favorite color or what he'd like to eat, the sex was good. One thing that I learned about myself though, was that I gravitated towards married men. The idea of temporarily having someone or something that belongs to someone else, feeds my addiction. I have a hard time understanding what it really means to settle down. These men all have something in common, they show, or at least this is what it feels like to me, love. I can admit that I'm broken. Many people might shame me and say that I'm a "slut" or "homewrecker," but I think that I'm just lost. I feel like I'm trying to find myself through these men and yes, I know that it's wrong but it feels so fucking good. For years, I tried to convince myself that money can buy me my happiness and that I didn't need anyone. Fear and pain pushed me into a dark place where I've went almost numb. After work I'd just come home and cry, as the alcohol burned my insides. During those moments, I think that I actually knew for a second what mamma was feeling when she was depressed. I constantly asked myself, "Is this what living feels like? Is it even worth it?" My phone rang, it was the French man. It wasn't until then I had realized that my daddy was the first man to disappoint me.