the short answer
the first thing they ask you is ‘how are you’
as though you can condense something that will stay with you forever that is inscribed upon your soul that has changed the very nature of your being that you cling to into words
/
it gets easier with every confession that passes your lips the bright lights bring you holy communion every drop of wine tastes like blood
facts are not truth. and so it goes on
/
& goes on & on & on & on
/
you admire your talent to never sweat under the pressure you do not cry your hands grip the table, dig grooves into the wood until your fingers bleed
you curl your fists into hands you curl your snarl into a mouth you tell your face to stop feeling angry even though it boils under the surface you
you refuse to be a victim
it does not work that way
/
lip split. neck red. they nod at you. take photos of the evidence. you curl your hands protectively over the wounds. they tell you it’s good.
you hope they do not heal. you pray that your mouth will always be one bite away from bleeding
so that no one wants to kiss you again
/
who the fuck is afraid of bathtubs?
/
as he holds your wrists almost tenderly your mind whispers again
and you steel your throat against screaming and you use your clever tongue in other ways
some monsters can be talked out of the closet
/
you fall into her arms and you almost pray she doesn’t catch you touch you
she asks if it is raining. through the throat he held you cry no
/
no no no no no no
the first time the second time the fifty-third time
the word refuses
to pass your lips
/
you don’t think you ever really surfaced from the water he held you under
/
you have been gasping for breath since you stood on the street corner.
you must’ve been cold. you don’t remember.
in that moment you felt hotter than you had in your entire life
and you prayed that the heat would swallow you before anyone answered the phone
/
‘how are you’ they ask you you tell them what they want to hear because questions like that are not meant for you
they are directed at your friends’ hearts they need to know when they can stop asking
‘it’s okay to be selfish’ you want to tell them but you don’t, because you’re selfish too
/
‘I am fine’ you say
as you let the bathtub run away from you
/
‘I’m doing better’ you say
as you dip your toe into getting out of bed today
as you lower yourself into rejecting more phone calls
as you splash against the four walls you call home
/
he tells you he made dinner for his mum. he watched a film without you. he missed you.
he does not ask how you are
you don’t know if he doesn’t know how to ask or how to reply
you don’t know if you would tell him the truth
/
the truth will slip out when you’re next so drunk you forget your own name
(you do not forget his no matter what you tell the police)
‘I love you’ ‘it was my fault’
and so on
/
& so on & on & on & on
/
this is your life from now on
you tell yourself ‘soon’
but like the conspiracy theorists waiting for Armageddon at the top of the highest hills
‘soon’ is never soon enough
/
when you hit your head as he pushed you into the bath you swear you saw heaven
light fractured the darkness twinkled so much so that you forgot the pain
you forgot the face of your boyfriend forgot the faces of your friends your parents your acquaintances and enemies and professors
for a sweet second nothing existed
except water lapping at your toes
and white light calling you home
/
your eyes opened.
water filled your lungs choking you until you could say nothing
reality pulled you back not kicking and screaming
but silent as death
/
they found blood underneath your fingernails
you’d like to say you fought with sweat and blood and nails that survival pulled you from the brink of drowning
but you went as willing as you can while saying ‘nonononononono’
/
the ironic thing is you talked your way out
you agreed when he said he would ruin you you promised him later you promised him everything
he let you go
but now your throat closes too tight so that no words escape
and really he never let you go at all
/
the short answer is:
I want to travel back in time. not to before it happened, but way back when God created the creatures and the sea
and I want him to look at the mud and make a creature in his image
I want him to pluck a rib from Adam’s breast and I want Adam to die from the shock of it
/
I want my ribs to implode. not to kill me, but for doctors to marvel at how something that was built to protect can destroy
/
but mostly I want to carry on
/
& carry on & on & on & on
/
the long answer is:
(silence)
