The Death of Drogo

December 8, 2015


Um, the Sun and stars died.

George, what did you do?

Oh Drogo.

If he can die, what hope is there?

On Game of Thrones? None, everybody dies.

In real life, my life…I walk into the funeral pyre and emerge the next morning, naked, new, with dragons on my shoulder and Drogo lives.

I had to wait a while to write this one.

If I write when I am hurt the words taste like venom in my mouth. My tongue becomes forked and I don’t like what I see. Kali without her mask on. Hera and her jealousy turning men into monsters.

Of course he is a monster, I wouldn’t like him otherwise.

Only monsters fuck like he does, like they read an instruction manual and learned what I love before I even landed in his bed, the car, the pool, the hammock, his couch, in his shower.

Eulogies are supposed to be a celebration of a light that has gone out, we don’t throw mud at funerals, just polite handfuls of dirt. When the hand opens and the dirt falls, that is the end.

There is no eulogy here. Only epiphanies.

I said before, the words ‘I told you so’ doesn’t put the rubble back to houses after an earthquake. It is impossible to rebuild with what is left after a disaster. New materials are needed. The cracks must be examined to determine where the weaknesses lie.

I built a house from straw and the wind knocked it down. I got the wind knocked out of me too.

Imagine if you will, me, married, mostly.

I explained before that my marriage was like a revolving door. Me inside, then she would push and I would end up outside, I’d push back and so it would go, a very un-merry go round.

I read a thing that stated ‘the indicator of any good relationship is the lack of seeing it on social media’.

Considering what I went through, having to check my Facebook every hour on the hour to see if which one of us was taking her turn as his secret mistress or celebrated wifey. Seeing pics of her and him while he paraded one of us out for the world to see while shunning the other.

Dirty laundry has no place here upon the Facebooks. It looks really gross. Wash your shit then hang it out. My tolerance for drama has dropped to zero. So that I agree with.

I cannot help it but I just suffered the worst of stomach rolling induced by déjà vu.

I saw something, Drogo on a date. My Pavlovian response was not to salivate, I cried. Ugly cry wherein breathing becomes impossible.


When the wind left my lungs it carried a low moan with it, that whale song my heart sometimes makes and it was answered, as it always is. This time by the Hulk.

I haven’t spoken to him since July, but his voice rings clear when I read his words, it is stern and coated in caring “if you talk about your other lovers to his face. That shows a green light for him to search too. When we started you had “Sunday” on the side and therefore I figured we wouldn’t be exclusive and I didn’t focus. Sorry to use this example but it works here.”

It works, perfect fit with a hermetic seal to contain the ashes of my Hulk. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I remembered being drunk with him, sitting in front of a church when we didn’t want a date to end. His eyes used to light up when I spoke. I confessed my sin of Sunday on a bench in front of Christ’s Church Cathedral, I watched the light dim.

Forgive me Father for Ima fucking idiot.

I failed to understand and I did the exact same thing again and then had it done unto me.

In the interest of being honest I didn’t keep anything to myself.
Just like being a mistress is abhorrent to me, so is fucking lying.

I know the other mistake I made. Talked about it at great length already. I made myself a whore and not a housewife.

I am this.

I had no idea I was going to catch feelings. I would have lost a pretty substantial amount of money betting I wouldn’t.

I am tired of being self-fulfilling prophecy girl, able to fuck her own shit up with some well-crafted words.

I talked myself in and out of pursuing a relationship with Drogo until I got dizzy, another un-merry go round. When the spinning stopped I realized, I don’t know how to ‘girlfriend’, what with all the heavily armed lost boys, my pet monsters and dragons on my shoulder.

I was waiting to feel safe enough to talk to him about it and that time never came. It wasn’t necessary. I like things the way they are. I AM safe here, with him.

I learned this during the burning.

We both came out new.

This is how I rebuild.

Something wonderful happened. I waited for the smoldering to subside and went exploring.

I found the cracks and identified the fire hazards.

He is my sanctuary, my safe place and my something to look forward to. A summer home, a spa getaway.

I’ve said before and I will say again, of course you can live at Disneyland, but that would take the magic away, for me at least.

Drogo is capitol F fine and mystical as is.

I said to the Hulk near the end of our palaver “I have been over you and I in my mind a thousand times. Not fully grasping what happened until you mentioned giving green lights and feeling disposable. At the time I only wanted you, and I’m sorry I ever made you feel differently.”

I know better now.

It took the sun collapsing on itself for things to illuminate.
I am the girl who studies the ashes and ruins.
Sometimes things have to burn for me to see.







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