Sometimes,
it just happens. I can be singing in the shower, dancing around the kitchen, lying in bed. And suddenly, I am curled up into a ball, my hands holding my chest, my arms wrapped around myself, holding myself together. The tears keep falling, the phrases keep poisoning my mind, you were never good enough for him, they say, he didn’t love you, he lied, they scream. I am scared. There was a day when you were my superhero. My best friend had a spider in his desk’s drawer, and I went running to you, all plaits and laughter, pointing towards the spider’s direction, telling you to kill it. You looked up from your math, your face all protective and you held me and I felt okay, I really really believed you would always be there for me. Three years later and I am in your car. We don’t know what to do with ourselves, our bodies. I play with your fingers, they are rough and course and I press them against my face and your eyes won’t leave mine and I trust you so much it feels like all the trust and love is pressing against my insides, wanting to get out. I loved you. You get the fries and the burgers and I am so shy, I trail after you, beside you, chewing on my lower lip as cheeky smiles and knowing glances are thrown at us. I eat and you offer to hold my bag and I don’t let you but oh, you’re persistent and I give in and you wrap my burger for me with tissue so I won’t dirty my hands and I smile at you and I am glowing. You said you loved me but people who love you don’t leave and I am gazing at you, I don’t understand, why are you leaving? What did I do wrong? You said I was good enough. I stare at you, confused and bewildered, no, I say, don’t leave me, stay, I will. But you stare straight at me, through me, and I realize you are leaving. This time I am correct, no one ever stays.
