A start is something easy. A finish is something different entirely. I fear that when I wake up, I won’t see the sun, the birds, the entity I long for, He called me the pervious evening. Telling me stories of the new life he has planned for us. I’m not sure if I believe it honestly. I want to be with him with every fiber of my being, but when you get lifted up so high and fall time and time again, you start to lose that matter-of-factly, faith, you once held dearly as a youth. Maybe, I’m crazy. I always felt a little off growing up. I was louder, bolder, than everyone else.
I didn’t want to conform to the directions the teacher scribbled out for us on the black board. I wanted to find my own way, my very own direction to travel. Now I’m here. Lost. With a man that doesn’t touch me unless he has no other remaining option. I thought I was worth more. I was always told that, wasn’t I? My mother finds my beauty to be a blessing, but what does she find that I can’t? I look in the mirror day after day, I find two eyes, a nose, a mouth, but for what? What use is kissing the lips I once yearned for?
He goes, He comes in. I want to isolate myself from all of it. A montage of men. That’s all it is. Kissing, touching, my skin.
Evaporate. If there was a different feeling to feel. As if I could morph myself into a new being altogether. Be reborn into a realm of simplicity. The feeling an ant has when it brings food to the queen. A feeling the flower receives from the sun’s rays. Just pure, innocent, feeling. Nothing complicated. Maybe, I am crazy. Nothing seems to phase me. I say exactly what’s on my mind, and for what? No one can hear me but me. He waited for me to respond, I couldn’t find the right words, and I became inaudible. He hung up the phone out of pure disgust. I guess, he always thought I would be this vibrant, beauty to him, I feel as if he erased a part of me, I can’t quite put my finger on anymore.
Do people have that strong of a power over others? That's how Hitler persuaded Germany into enslaving Jews. People do tend to have a strong hold on one’s thoughts. I put on my jacket in an attempt for a walk, I see Johnny on his bike, he looks so content, smiles as he throws the morning paper at an expecting stoop in my neighborhood. I slowly sip my coffee.
I always loathed the taste of black coffee, but after working four to nine, I’ve grown accustomed to the bitter taste in my mouth. I see a lady walking her two terriers, their yapping at me, as we pass each other. I pretend I don’t see the lady’s expecting face, she wants to chat, I wander across the street, just to avoid her gaze. When have I become so antisocial? I realize I’m still in my robe, pajama bottoms, slippers, and all. There once was a day, where I’d rather stick needles in my eyes, than be seen dressed like this in public.
I put my fingers through my greasy, unkempt, hair. No wonder He won’t marry me, I’m a mess. It’s not like I want a ring on my finger, I’m thirty-five, and I still can’t find the means of happiness, why lure someone into my pool of despair? He’s verbally abusive, and indecisive anyway. I know he’s banging my high school friend, Georgia, her wide prominent features shouldn’t be anything to offend, but she’s offended me, she’s always had a larger cup size, and in this society that’s what keeps men the longest, plump, round, breasts. I still have the body of a preteen.I’m fine with it though, really, I mean I can jog without a bra, wear tiny tops that large busted women cannot squeeze in, it’s not so bad. I reach my house again, my walk was short, but somehow I feel satisfied, the brisk morning air has awoken me, and I don’t feel as drowsy and shiftless as I did originally. He’s there, waiting for me, he doesn’t have flowers, doesn’t say sorry. I ask him what he’s doing here, he just looks at me blankly, “I’m here to see you,” I walk up the steps and pass his hunched over stance on my stoop. I turn my key, I open my door, both doors to him, hastily he walks in, walks on my grounds, my place, me.