Friday, February 1, 2013


She stood in the bathroom mirror and you watched from the door as she pressed the hollowed purple under her eyes. 
"I've barely slept, your tossing and turning." So you stay still, holding the door frame the way you used to touch her hips, in the night, touched her hips because she was soft and beautiful and you wanted to be part of whatever she was; even if only for millisecond. Your skin ridges running over her mountains, her boundless sea cliffs of hip bone. Eroded rock. The bed seems to have turned to hot coals, you roll ceaselessly, attempting to escape it. You felt virginal in her presence, on the marriage bed staring at a silhouttle with adoration and awe and envy and resentment. 

Against her naked chest, too soft. Suffocating pillows, the sweet taste before vomit, her mouth as a fever. You come home, dripping wet with puddles blooming from the soles of your sopping socks. 
"Come here, you're a mess" 
and you fall into her. Later, for no apparent reason, you cut yourself while she sleeps. 
Once, slowly, to see what your blood is still made of, to check if she's tainted it. And then crawl back under the sheets; the glowing embers sticking to your skin and your tongue moves into stories. She stirs when you slide your arm up under her ribs and you whisper 'i tried i tried i tried' but she's already asleep.

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