Moncho

When I think of Moncho I think of all the wrongs I should have righted before they became wrongs.  It's like I stepped in a puddle I saw coming and owned the water in my shoe and laughed about it like it's what I wanted in the first place.  And then came the regret.  And then the confusion.  And then the anger.  First at myself.  And then at Moncho.
Moncho is the temptation and the curse, the decision and the knowledge, the hope and despair.  And if you don't have a Moncho, you did.  Or you will.  Everyone has a Moncho at some point, even if he doesn't show up on your doorstep or look you square in your self-conscious face in the middle of the night when you turned around and least expected him but saw him anyway even though you never thought you would.
And Moncho knows exactly what he's doing.  He's a goalie, a score keeper, an ice-skater, and hunter, and he will run his bowie knife right through the guts of your perfectly salted plan.  And he will leave you alone to think about the mistakes you made.  Because you made them, not him.  He just happened to get in the way.  Moncho is always in the way.  Literally.  And then he's all you can think about until you want to puke because you're still a little sick about it and wounded, too.  Moncho is the one you thought you could trust out of everyone.  But Moncho is a trick, a monolithic, illusory, sparkly new thing that turns out to be that which you should've left alone.  But you let him in, and now he's your secret, and you wear him like cheap perfume, like smudged lipstick, like a life jacket, because he knows, too, what can tempt you.  He took a big risk because he was the one with nothing to lose, so what did it matter to him if he couldn't make you break your diet or your promise or you knuckles on the table of regret.  He's no longer innocent, but he's not guilty either. 
And he doesn't even have the sense to consider the ramifications of Moncho.  Moncho is mindless.  Now put Moncho out of your mind.