Dear Lover,
There was no laughter today. I drove to the bottom of a half-gallon of Cold Stone with my spoon. I told myself I should go out for a drink with friends, but my skinny jeans looked fat when I finally got into them. I switched to a dress that hid the thousands of calories that I’ve eaten since we met. My friends say I’ve never looked quite this shitty before. I don’t walk like sex, or have rainbows in my cheeks and sugar cubes for teeth. And my laughter is brittle and worn, and stressed, and strung out. And there was no music in my vocal chords at all.
And they told me you were pollution in my garden of sun, a worm in my apple orchard, a cancer on my lung. I gathered air with shrinking shoulders, sang the same excuse of love. It sounded a tired tune to my ear drums, doumbeks wary of being beaten with your abusive tongue. I had never been nonsexual before. There’s no aggression anymore. I sit passively and wait in practiced indifference, reciting the contradictions I listed between your words and actions. I have fewer sentences and opinions. I don’t agree with anything you say, but my silence won’t invite another acid rain.
I don’t see myself anymore.
They told me you were a monsoon on my summer. My legs cramped from treading. I’m not myself anymore. I haven’t laughed in days. I never expected to wade from human to whore.