I get up from the bed; stark naked beside another, dozing peacefully through. the only light comes from the apartment across our windows, highlighting the crests and troughs of your face, as opposed to mine: oriental and flat.

I place a hand on your chest, counting the breaths you make; I lose count much too soon. I try again, and I forget. 

You sleep on, and on, and on. I don’t know how long I stay. Time seems to be at a standstill. I haven’t slept for 3 days. I can’t sleep; I can’t wake. I haven’t gotten up for 4 days. Please help me.
The clock hands show the time: 3:45. I lay down beside you and pretend to sleep. Your alarm goes off at 4. 

I hope you’ve slept well, my love. You have work today, and I don’t like your boss. I hope you’ll get that promotion soon, get a raise, have better hours.

Do good, get better, fare well.

You leave for work. I get up. 


Bloody waterfall

You wonder at how the Mother Mary must have felt, when within the month she had not had that bloody waterfall between her legs; assuring that a holy parcel from heaven was growing in the space between her kidneys. You wonder if she looked down at her -most probably toned, as God chooses only the best of us- stomach, and felt alive, giddy with excitement. 

It isn’t what you feel. Or at least, what you will feel.

A woman walks into a fortuneteller’s shop by way of amusing herself. She pays the dollar necessary for a fortune -a dollar for a fortune!- , and sits herself on the purple cushions a bit too lumpy for too thin a behind. The gnarly old woman peers at her from behind the cliché glass ball, but she feels at ease as the teller prods and pokes with her eyes.

She is suddenly beside you. You wonder if you lapsed into a microsleep, having no recollection of her standing or moving. She is prodding you now, between your kidneys, and you want to move away.

You will be with child, she says, within the month’s time. 

You say thank you, politely, and get up to leave. 

You walked into the fortuneller’s shop a month ago; paying a dollar for a fortune. Now, you are here, in line at the pharmacy. You’re a week late for a monthly appointment. A purchase and a trip to the bathroom resolves that, yes, you definitely feel quite the opposite of the Mother Mary.

What do you need

What’s wrong?

What do you need?

What do you need?
Desperation seeps into my voice as I repeat my words; years of anger, of fear, of pain, crumbling what shitty shreds of composure I have left, revealing cracks in myself that I could never plaster. I beg you to look into my eyes and tell me. Talk to me. Please.
God, stop! What do you want me to do? What can I do? What can I do? whatcanIdowhatcanIdowhatcanIdo?
I love you. Terribly. Dearly and wholeheartedly. Good bye.