I come to you with open wounds. Raw, fresh, and bleeding. Every fight I pick I lose. A lost cause before the first shot, yet I still keep swinging. I wonder if I’ll ever stop. I can’t feel beyond the shame of another fuck up, another mistake tallied up on my skin. You check for broken bones beneath battered, bruised flesh. They’re always intact. We both know there is nothing you can do for a broken heart.
You run warm water into a shallow bowl. It’s been repurposed for nights like this. I remember where it used to sit, on a high shelf collecting dust. It lives somewhere else now, easier to reach. Muscle memory has not hardened your touch. You are as soft tonight as every night before. You’ve never tired. Your smile is as warm as the water, yet I still can’t look at you.
I wonder which night you started to hum as you wiped away dried blood off my knuckles. I wonder if you know you are doing it. Is it on purpose? Is it for me? I wonder if you’ll ever start singing. I miss your voice. We stopped talking after the first time. You asked if I was okay, and you knew then I never would be. You never asked again.
The water stains pink. I worry one day it’ll be red. Red, viscous, and overflowing. Tonight, it’s still pink. Routine has made you quick, wrapping me in bandages before the water ever cools. You rub a thumb over your handiwork, a gentle sigh spills from your lungs. You’ve never sighed before. I wonder if you’ve grown tired.
You set some pills on a napkin and get me water in my favorite glass. You don’t look at me, afraid you’ll see my denial. Every time you try and every time I refuse. If I can feel it, maybe I will learn. Maybe I’ll grow tired, too. Tired of stiff hands and throbbing joints. Tired of gauze and the bowl and how sad your humming has gotten. Tired of hearing the rattle as you put the pills back in the bottle and tired of that fucking glass of water. Its not my favorite anymore. Every drink from that glass taste like copper.
I hear the water run in the bathroom and you’re still humming. You stop before you cross the threshold to the hallway. An outstretched hand to guide me to the bath. I know this routine. I sigh, too, but that is nothing new. You untie my shoes and help me get undressed. Your eyes dance across the pattern of bruises. Have they ever been the same?
You help guide me down afraid I’ll fall, as if I can slip further than I already have. The water is just hot enough to sting, to soothe. I wonder if you will ever make it cold. I wonder if you’ll stop running it at all. You start humming again as you wash my hair, gently undoing tangles, and nests of dried blood. I never feel you tug. Do you think about holding my head underwater? Sometimes I think I’d let you. If anyone deserves to, you do.
The washcloth moves in slow, soft circles. You never push against my bruises. Are you afraid I’ll break? To shatter in your palms and cut your hands. I fight the urge to push back and punish myself the way I deserve to be, the way I hope you want to. You aren’t violent, not vengeful. But you are methodical, intentional, calculated.
With every bath you hope to soften my edges like a stone in the sea. There is no hurricane in you, though. Only gentle waves of touch and care. You want to flatten out my jagged parts so you can hold me safely. To polish and shine until I am smooth as glass. To reflect the good parts of you. So you can see what you want to see, what you need me to be.
Glass can shatter too, my love. Push too hard and it’ll break. Shards are much sharper than I ever was. I was safer as stone. I only spilled my own blood before, but now I am drawing yours out, too. Is it my turn to take down the bowl, to warm the water, to set out your favorite glass, and run a bath? Would you even want me to? I have no songs to hum for you, my love.
I come home intact and plain. The bowl was already pulled down, the med kit on the table. You turned around and found no ruin. You sighed again. You smiled when I met your eyes, a kiss on unswollen lips. That might be our first. You leave to go run a bath, but you don’t come back for me. I hear you humming. It’s the saddest you’ve ever sounded.
You left everything on the table. You were hoping to use it again. I leave it out, afraid to touch it. The bowl begins to collect dust again. I still can’t use my favorite glass. I can’t use yours, either. You’ve pulled away from me, unsure how to touch me when there is nothing to mend.
Every fight I picked I lost. You didn’t need to throw punches to come out on top. Just a gentle touch. It didn’t matter that I groaned or pulled away. You were always patient. You buffed out all the things you thought would help me. Turns out you didn’t like me easy. You liked me needing you. You needed it, too.
I was stronger as stone. Polished and broken and smoothed out into sand beneath your feet. Pouring down an hourglass. When the last piece of me hits the bottom, you’ll leave. Because you’ve finally grown tired and now I can’t sleep.
