2.10.2015 Journal Prompt

Photo by Leysis Quesado Vera. Source themkphotographyblog.net
Photo by Leysis Quesado Vera. Source themkphotographyblog.net

February 10, 2015: Holding on.

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One thought on “2.10.2015 Journal Prompt

  1. I sometimes feel myself shrinking. Each day it is as though there is a little less to me. Like smoke when it thins and soon will be nothing. They say that about the old, that they lose parts of themselves, their smokey memories dwindle and they walk smaller in the world. Only, I am not yet old, and I feel a little smaller today than I did yesterday.

    He does not see me the same, the man I live with and call husband. He says I am skin and bone and he says I should eat and he watches me sharp as pins pricking my skin, watches me to see that I eat what he puts before me. He says I should see a doctor, he pleads, and I laugh and I wave away his concern, as I would wave away a nuisance fly.

    When he touches me now, it is as though he touches thin glass. He strokes my cheek or weighs my wanting breast in his hand or kisses my dry lips soft as butterflies or moths. I tell him I am fine and I ask him to make love to me, but he dare not. The jut of my bones and the grey of my skin puts him off. He does not say this, but I know. He thinks if he lays with me, on me, I will break under him – he does not understand that I am already as broken as it is possible to be.

    It is not the same as before. Not since that woman at work, the one he spent the night with and her name a sudden found thing written on a scrap of paper in his pocket and a message from her on his phone that he does not delete. And he fucks her but only fucks with me.

    Please, I say to him.

    Instead, he carries me to bed – light as feathers, he says, light as air – and he draws a sheet over me and a blanket, covers me for shame, tends me as though I am sick, and he sits guilty in a chair till I sleep or till he sleeps, whichever is the sooner.

    And I feel myself shrinking, in his world and in mine. Like I am near to nothing. I creep to the bathroom when he isn’t looking or when he isn’t there. The clean white tiles are cold to the touch, and the birdsong and tree-whispers come at me through the open window, and the sound of the tap running hides the sound of my retching.

    Thin as sticks or broom handles, but not yet thin enough. And all my memories still accounted for, still sharp as broken glass drawn across the inside of my wrist and up the length of my arm. And he does not know that I can smell her on his skin, sweet and cloying, and in his hair too and on his breath when he kisses me. And he promised it was over, swore it, and maybe it is, but not in my head.

    Fuck, fucking and fucked. And the scales say I am lighter today than yesterday. I sit on the chair in the bathroom and from there I can see only sky and sunlight hanging in the air and falling on my skin. Lighter and smaller today and everything hurts but nothing hurting so much as the thought of him with her and I hold onto that.

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