the way you told me you didn't love me anymore sounded
like my father raising his voice.
i have always recoiled into loud noises, slamming
doors and heavy words have caused me to
flinch in record-reaction time. i fall in and in and
into myself and you say it quietly, but it
is louder than any breaking glass or screeching
tire noises in the driveway of my childhood home. i
have always chosen my words very carefully in a
world full of carelessness, i choose gentle and i choose
compassion and i choose kind. the way you told me
you didn't love me anymore sounded like the fight
where my mother said she was collecting her things.
the way you told me you didn't love me anymore sounded
like packing a suitcase and putting a for sale sign on the
glossy green suburban lawn. the way you told me you
didn't love me anymore sounded like the music my
sister would turn up to drown out the voices of adults
downstairs, or the creaking footsteps of a man coming
home late, wafting in someone else's perfume. the way you
told me you didn't love me anymore sounded like the wail
of a child after a blow to the face, after another blow to the
face, after another blow to the-
the way you told me you didn't love me anymore sounded
like something i had been waiting to hear since you told me
you loved me. the other shoe drops. the other shoe drops.
a swift, clean, repetitive blow to the face.