Textures #36


beeswax

there was a time i would have cried you a river a time when my nights would have been tossing in bed naked with mascara on my cheeks trying to make sense of what can never be made sense of. my skin against the crimson bed sheets would feel like some kind of purgatory with the memory of your body still attached to each thread and each feather; wriggling my feet searching for yours but instead finding the empty spaces left by your silences. it’s almost summer. it’s been raining and the wind has blown away the memory of your smile and replaced it with blocked sinuses and itchy eyes. when i was little i used to roll on the grass my heart full of excitement and curiosity; i had no allergies and love had not entered my veins. like rhizomes burrowing and wrapping themselves around the roots of a tree the loves of my life have wrapped themselves along every inch of my nervous system until it seemed it would collapse. and yet, it didn’t. at first, it felt like it would never heal, like once infected that first wound would stay open and no other lover could possibly compete. then, as the bodies moved in and out of my bed the wound cauterised with the force of a ten-pound branding iron, so much that i stopped caring about what i felt or what anybody felt. you think i’m the greatest girl you ever met? fine, and you smile. you just want to fuck me because the love of your life left you? of course, you say. i understand, you add. and smile. don’t forget to smile. i became the epitome of the girl who shows only the right amount of emotion and waits patiently until the text messages begin to drop day by day, week by week, until they disappear altogher; until i disappeared altogether. i became the perfect girl: never complained, always smiled, soon forgotten. 

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