emily

I let them go, beads of the cruelty you showed me and the pain you caused me running down my neck.

But there’s always more. There’s more where that came from, I tell them, I have an endless supply. Some things can’t be cleansed by tears. Some things are solid, and they make a host out of you like a parasite.

You used me. You consumed me, swallowing up every organ and branding my flesh with your name.

How does it not sicken you? The love letters I sent you when I was 16, walking to the mailbox in secrecy; you told me not to tell my parents.

How does it not drill into you, hollow you out? I grew up for you; my first perfume, purchased in a scent of your choosing.

How does it not eat you alive? The photos you asked me to take, the late night calls. Picking my college, visiting me in my dorm room.

me to my friends: *starts laughing*

did it even happen?

Two years ago you moved into a lovely house just off a curvy, wide road that was always plowed well in the Michigan winters. You and your spouse were gifted the house from his family shortly after marrying. It’d been paid off, so you didn’t have a mortgage. The extra money had been really nice. The house had become warm to you, homey. After a childhood of moving place to place, never having a firm grasp on what “home” even meant, having a home so familiar was just as great as you’d imagined. When you drove home from your part time job at a farmers market a couple miles away, you knew exactly what the inside of the house would smell like: oak floors and cinnamon and coffee. Soon, the faintest smell of baby formula and dirty diapers, too. Pulling up to the drive way, the tires rolling over the familiar bumps and small incline of the drive way, you felt calm.

After a tumultuous life of mental health issues, family trouble, and many battles fought and won, you finally felt calm. As you sat in your car, the scent of clean, new leather and a floral freshener wafted around you. The drive way was well-lit, bordered by pots of spring blooms you and your spouse had planted a couple weeks prior. You knew when you opened the front door there would be no yelling, no slammed doors, no thrown objects. Every room would be mostly clean, maybe a little dusty or with the occasional coffee cup ring on a table, but your spouse would be there. Maybe they’d brought home a bag of your favorite burgers or decided to whip up some grilled cheese. Looking in your middle console, you saw the two hot chocolates you picked up on your way home. You liked white chocolate cocoa, and your spouse liked really dark chocolate. You wanted to surprise them with a warm drink, so you grabbed the two, your tote bag slung over one shoulder, and headed inside.

Approaching the front door, you got out your key and set down a cup, then slowly opened the door. Warmth poured out of the door with the faint smell of french fries. From inside you could hear your spouse humming softly and their feet padding along the floor. A step or two inside and you slipped off your shoes, set them in the rack and followed the sounds. Nearing the corner that led to the kitchen, you turned and joy and serenity filled you. There was so much trust and love in this home. Your spouse was dancing between the kitchen sink and the island, music blasting through their earbuds, drying dishes and putting them away. You watched for a moment, admiring them, and placed the hot chocolates down on the counter. They heard the faint noise, turned, and smiled at noticing your arrival. You smiled back as they took an earbud out, running the towel over the plate in their hands, and asked you: