I wake up before my alarm goes off & notice that A’s arm is not on me. I move my body closer to him, & he doesn’t turn to hold me. I get out of bed & notice that Y had left. I stare at the empty air mattress & accept that December will be difficult. September has been merciless so far, & I am too weak to decide whether to flee before December comes, or to fight through to next year. I return to bed & put his arm on my shoulder. He pulls me in & I don’t belong to him.
I read carefully, a book I read before, about Wolves, Alfred Hitchcock’s dinner parties, 36 plots of tragic situations, identical twins, & what the whales sound like in Manhattan. My eyes glaze over the ornate & mysterious lines, & I take deep breaths to kill the thoughts of my arguments that I held back. I was still a circuitous woman, despite all the things I cut out from my speeches, & even though I was listened to, I felt a loss of respect in A & my relationship. Jessica from the Well says, Bring me back alive. It was so simple to come down. I’ve tried talking to women qualified in grief, eating ice cream, & having sex until it hurt, but never figured out how to turn off a bad feeling. Given my character, I will always be retentive, a little too sentimental, clumsily stitched at the seams & terrestrial, rippling from just air, inconceivable & full of night.
Birdie says I am Birdie. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I am hurting myself. I can’t tell time you know. A tells me my love seems fragile. I look at him like he broke me.
In the past couple of months, men built three levels of scaffolding at the gallery building & they hammer at something every day. In times when your home doesn’t feel like your home & you storm out to call your friends about this betrayal, you realize there is no quiet in the city. Bonnie & Clyde on the Motorcycle circle around the block blasting some shitty cover of a song, young men yell & laugh on the basketball court, & no one can turn off the car alarm. When I called, B talked about security– how some men can give it to you easily & gladly. B pointed that no one can say the right thing always, but some people never know how to make you feel secure. In Manhattan what the whales sound like at night is blue & unpossessable. A sounds like he’s telling me he is Honesty instead of Flattery, Love instead of Infatuation. I am Kieren. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I don’t know the difference between love & real love. I don’t want his Love & Honesty anymore.
By the time I’m 25, I don’t know where I will be. Once I felt so much joy in his pleasure that I would have kissed & touched another girl he picked for me. Once I adopted his thoughts like my own & tried to see the things that he saw in other girls. I said I would kiss them when he asked if I would. I agreed with him when he said they were hot. Now I don’t feel sexy. I only feel used. This many days into my life, I have come to this.
After allowing so much disrespect already, I do not know how to accept an apology. I am tired of the lack of anything luminescent & trustworthy, & I blame myself. Now I know that you don’t expect pure intentions from someone who cares so embarrassingly deeply about appearances. This time around forgiveness asks for the abandonment of intelligence, & I wish I woke up with no inkling of anything. I wish it didn’t hurt to see his face & his mouth move. In December, I will be perhaps alone, at the beach, in high heels, calm, & no longer crying. I’m the kind of girl who calls from baths in old extravagant hotels. I think of ruined thighs. I will eat my breakfast from the pool & feel lighthearted & lovable, dive deep & touch the marbled tiles. Your new woman is Easy on the Eye, you say. I will be free. No one will ever love you like you wanted to be loved. I wish you bluebirds in the spring.
* everything written in Italics are repurposed quotes from Lucie Brock-Broido’s first book