Friday night:
Time is a nonentity now.
Days last longer than the hairs I find scattered around my bedroom floor;
Weeks go so quickly that I can't remember
when I last heard myself think.

Saturday morning:
The world is still.
I open my window to feel the breeze of crying skies
as if they knew
but I didn’t listen.

Saturday night:
I come back stumbling
the night wind still in my hair
I grab your leg, you touch my mouth
It’s been hours since I tasted the *** and ***** but my tongue still tingles
And my fingertips echo the feeling along your hairline
I remember thinking “I’ll have to deal with this in the morning.”
But I’ve been known to procrastinate.

Sunday morning:
You kiss me on the way out
I don’t sleep.
Every time i close my eyes I can still feel hands on my skin
I have bruises in places I didn’t know existed
My lip swells slightly, and I tiptoe down the hall
wondering who knows my secret
I can’t bring myself to pick up the pile of black lace on my floor
a mark of reality

Monday:
They say your skin regenerates every seven months— I don’t want to have to wait that long.
I know I sealed my lips but i need to scream
so I do it in semi-private whispers

Tuesday:
We reverse roles as I realize I don’t feel
this is new but it seems natural
no– ordinary
I thought I’d have an awakening but instead I’m apathetic
and awkward.

Wednesday:
I confront the ox sitting on our tongues.
I prepared for every possibility, every answer, every worst-case-nuclear-situation
except
this one.
And for the first time all week I feel violated and vulnerable
with all my clothes on I am naked in front of you again
and I step back as a door closes in my face
Huddled in the corner of my room
I wonder if mimicking my mother’s womb could recreate the safety I felt
before you told me.

Thursday:
I thought I wanted numb, but this is worse.

Friday:
How many words can I come up with for being shunned?
I give up.
I’ve started going to the bathroom on my own now, no more bodyguards.


Saturday:
I’m fine.
No, really.
I’m more fine than you and yours
and that in and of itself makes my blood boil

Sunday:
I smile, and you flatten yourself against a wall to avoid me.
You don’t remember me cleaning up your drunk mess last night
for a moment I almost thought we were back to–
but no.
you are too detached
and too hurt
to find any sort of perspective in this mess

Monday:
He talks to me again, and I feel okay, finally.
There are pauses,
like our fumbling fingers in the dark,
but this time I have back up.
And even though everything is wrong, everything goes right.
From rock bottom, there is nowhere to go but up.