i have been thinking about the way horses will sometimes lie down when they’ve been overworked. you can beat them or starve them and they won’t get up. they understand something final. there is a term for it in old veterinary texts: recumbency without response. they cannot be coaxed.
i cannot be coaxed.
the psyche has laid down and the body keeps marching. my legs carry me to the park. i remember to pack a muesli bar. i behave like someone who is fine. i move my mouth in socially acceptable movements. i giggle. i answer questions. i develop a stomach ulcer.
i stand in the bath and try not to remember the versions of myself that lay here before, fetal and failed. instead, i rinse. i pour rosewater over my thighs. i scrub until my skin looks like it belongs to someone else.
some women cope by praying. others by working. others by setting things on fire. i write until my fingers ache. until i am empty enough to pass through a room unnoticed. until the rage climbs back into its little drawer. i tuck it in with a cotton cloth. i give it a kiss. i promise it tomorrow. you can only bleed out in so many places before they become sacred. i can no longer afford to be found in pieces.
