Roxanne,
I went to a Cha Chan Teng in Chinatown the other day. It reminded me of you.
Two straws in a Hong Dau Bing. Add 5 dollars for an ice cream. Now there’s only one straw, and the cheap red beans they have in America simply do not compare. But I sat there and sobbed because I know I could never share a Hong Dau Bing with you ever again.
It was a tango. I swore, in front of all my friends and yours, that I don’t want anything to do with you. And it was true. Your beauty disgusted me. It fascinated me. I am not used to pretty girls being nice to me like that. You taught me my first swear words. You offered me my first blunt. You turned me from a boy to a man. I lost myself within you, I loathe myself without you.
There was a point in time when you trusted me. You gave me your past. Like the stepfather that left you, and the mother that abused you. I wanted to shield you from the pain. I thought I could save you. When I held you in my arms, I saw the sparkle of life and ambition underneath the makeup. I saw myself in you, young, lost, but hopeful. But I see it clearly now, you were born broken. There was opium inside of your system when you were born. There was no escape.
You traded your integrity for drugs, just like that pathetic mother of yours. You claim that you were pimped out by her, but I think we both know that it was you. And perhaps there is a part of your conscience that knows that this isn’t right, so much that you almost hung yourself with that yellow scarf on Lion Rock, but you were too scared. That was the most selfish thing you could have done to me. Nothing is sacred to you. You sold your body and soul just to get a hit. I tried helping you. I put myself on the line for you. I almost got arrested fighting for you. But it didn’t matter, you had already given up on yourself.
Your sickness was macabre, and I knew that was the end. But it wasn’t those symptoms that disgusted me, it was you. I left you because I loved you, and I don’t want to see you like this. They asked me if I am going to visit you. But seeing a walking corpse of you pains me. It angers me.
You were and remain as the only muse of my craft. I was so proud of having you, but now I am just embarrassed to even think you could be saved. I still think of you daily, I still speak of you highly. I am preserving the very honor that you disposed. Your name is brought up every time I introduce myself, because there is residue of you inside me. But your friends have all trashed and deserted you. They won’t even mention you by name. But it will all be over, your imminent death is only a matter of time. The doctors said you will die a slow, painful death of withdrawal. I will have the decency to attend your funeral, knowing that you don’t have the respect to stay alive for me. I will write your obituary very soon.
I saw a double decker bus in Vegas a couple months ago. I cried because it resembles you. Like your stepfather. Towering, confident, whitewashed. And then it dawned on me, I will spend the rest of my life chasing vestiges of you.
And I can call you names like Roxanne like that song, or Heung Gong, or Hong Kong, but that would not change the fact that you have changed. Fuck you for forcing me to leave you. Fuck you for betraying someone who had been with you for 18 years.
x