He Will Not Be Attending

I looked in the mirror and lightly touched the bruised map of my face. Another continent to join all the others I’ve travelled to, during our time together. This one looked especially angry. If bruises could speak, they’d say, You let this happen again. And I’d nod, then whisper my apologies. In the middle of that apology, my fingers might chime in, crooked from healing at home, because things don’t leave this house. My left toe, hardened and black under old nail polish, would add its voice too. I paint it to pretend it isn’t there.

I could go on and on about the parts of myself that want penance or recollection- what did Ms. Hooks say? The body keeps score. I only need to stand naked before my reflection to gather all the points.

The cliché is, it was always like this.
But I curated my version. Edited the footage. Softened the sound. Ignored the signs like they were background noise until the picture was pretty to me and everyone else.

Today, after one of our ‘conversations’, I heard a soft rap on my bedroom door. Opening it to some ice, with a note that he wrote me.

“I froze my apologies in time and left them at your doorstep.”

I held the block of ice. Let it sweat in my hand. Then I hobbled down the corridor. He was slouched on the couch, watching a game. I stared at him for a while. I don’t know how long. Long enough to feel how quiet it had become inside me. Long enough for my eyes to travel around his body. Nothing was mapped on his skin. Nothing was bent out of shape with his body.

I didn’t think about it, I hurled the solid block at his head.

I hate poetry.

Let’s add that to the list of things he ignores about me.

He fell forward in a slump, I wasn’t expecting that, or the knock at the door from his fellow teacher at the elementary school. There’s a meeting this evening. It is safe to say he will not be attending.