To wake up as if everything is normal, good even, and then have it hit you like a ton of bricks. It doesn’t come with words. I wish it did. Words you can negotiate with, words you can reshape. It invades like an oil spill, rising from your feet, past your thighs, to assault your gut, restrict your throat, grip your heart and settle like thick molasses under your skull. Black sludge overwhelms you and all you can do is surrender. You want to stay in bed forever. The thought of food churns your stomach.
You don’t want to die but could life itself stop for a while?
You're not 25 anymore. Or even 40. You’re not someone who can be defeated by a man’s betrayal. But you’re not someone who can summon hope for the future quite as easily either. Everything tastes of rust in your mouth. Who knew that a heartbreak-in-progress would leave such an aftertaste?
***
I journaled everything. Every sweet lie, every contact made on skin, every misgiving and every gut feeling. I don't know if I learned anything from it. Resilience maybe? Maybe how to carry the scent of foreboding in every shared delight?
I would've walked the plank for you, K. I would've made egregious errors. I would've crossed the line for you, my love. I would've purged it all.
Your betrayal saved me. But please, no more. No more.
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| Ya should've seen the gym-bro images that popped up when I googled 'photos of walking the plank' |
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