Yet not this time. This time, You Are Pathetic.
I only asked just to hear you say no.
And on we went, or so it seemed. In endless circling of looped fray, returning to the same point of insecurity. Like the gnarled oak or leggy teen, both on forever from opposing sides of mortality’s fence.
Woken by I Love Yous from the depth of panicked encircling, swirled aura of fleshy pink, like a throat for it feels as though being swallowed whole. All-encompassing and ever enclosing as the joy and delight of life, even the spark and defense of fight, are squeezed into the seeping release of cystic acne popped before its time. Yet patience would not have helped in this instance. Said for it was only ever twice tried. The factor of deciding was not the degree to which she was patient but that he was angry. How far he was willing to go? How small was he willing to reduce her? Usually tiny. Bound in her own limbs like kite string unspooled and hastily rewound. The iridescence of sadness dried upon her sleeves as more leaked in steady seep. Hair unfortunate enough to be anywhere near her hands would be grabbed and tugged against, not to uproot, but to feel tension and be the cause of it. To have a small semblance of control, even if only in the doling of pain. The classic panic attack seen across all screens, its one-way depiction a problematic gift from the male gaze. In such inwardly spiraled destruction, unable to move but for the curling of toes and balling of fists, time would lose itself in the maze of hazed pain in her mind. Neither asleep nor awake, her soul reduced to repetition of the simple, “I’m ok” or “I want my mommy”.
He was just so far away. Retreating into caves of anger, stalagmites menacing in their threat to crush not just her, but even the finest dusting of love that ever could have sprinkled upon their union. Feeling as though she lost him, that no this was the time he would never return, ceasing to ever be her bear, the knife of anguish drove deeper, until its serration grazed her very soul. Collapsing unto herself, all that she knew and had ever known a wash of egg white atop a cake of coupled despair. And yet, all the times bar one, despite the distance jammed in pvc between their hearts, there he was. I Love You he’d say. Rousing her from the affliction he inspired. Unfurling from the chrysalis of her pain, their love settling like dust upon new wings, ready for flight, to flee the scene as if by leaving it were never to have happened. And as he did with all the predictability of sorrow chords played tightly on the copper of her heart – I’m sorry, he’d say. I’ll never do that again.
©2018 Clementine Yost
June 21, 2018