After our meeting last week at a coffee shop where you ordered a glass of orange juice that you spilled all over the table and that wasn’t really a coffee shop to begin with, I finally heard what you said. Really heard what you said. That you wanted me close, but not too close, for the way my hands mended a hole inside of your flesh. A hole that has been infecting your mind, and more importantly, the veins around your heart, for at least two decades now.
During our meeting last week at a coffee shop where you ordered a glass of orange juice that you spilled all over my hands and that wasn’t really a coffee shop to begin with, I finally heard what you said. Really heard what you said. That you wanted me close, but not too close, for the way you got lost along the side of the road and found an affection-filled-oasis inside of my flesh that quenched your mother hunger in ways you didn’t dream possible before. Your thirst for survival kicked in. Right before your longing for thriving. Around the time you forgot about my side of this experience. And the lead you pumped into my bloomstream.
Before our meeting last week at a café where you ordered a glass of lemon juice and spilled it all over your hands, I finally heard what you said. Really heard what you said. That you wanted me close, but not too close, because you would never give me what I deserved; a two-way street of care, an affirmation of being seen. And yes, you knew it was unfair to me, but it was just so nice to carry me around, neatly folded inside of your pocket: a breath of fresh air ready to be breathed when life gave you too little oxygen. And you knew. You knew. You knew. You knew you weren’t gonna offer me anything substantial. Anything at all. And that I didn’t hold enough air in my lungs for myself to carry me out the seams of your black Carhartt jacket. And still, you took. You took. You took. Excavated the marrow from my bones without even batting an eye.
History repeated itself in the emptiness of my hands, the contracting waves inside of my womb, birthing a life that was only half mine. A restaging of my family portrait, there in the creases of your unfamiliair face. And it broke me. It broke me. It broke me into myself. It freed me from my stifling desire to be wanted, and it broke me.
