Scrape

shiv

We sat on perpendicular blue couches, no longer comfortable sharing space on one sofa. Already half-decided, this was us signing on the dotted line of the invisible document you could never bring yourself to write out. I looked through the glass and watched a white wire alongside the window next door blowing with the wind. It continued to move fractions of inches every few seconds, back and forth, scraping the wall. And we sat, unhinged and immobile, easier in the silence when apocalyptic words weren't required. Vacillation and indecision had all but left the building, previously only hiding in the hallway.

I wiped my tears on my sleeve for the hundreth time and noticed the constant grating had left a black smudge on the cream wall outside. It had always mildly aggravated me, this marring, this endless chafing. I wondered if there was a similar swinging wire apparent outside our apartment, something other people observed but we could never see.

I thought of how our outer layer no longer existed, how our skinless mess was now selotaped up with adhesive fingers. How we had begun to have infrequent soul-less sex, after which you were now the one complaining about the lack of intimacy. How it was me springing up right after it was finished, I love yous stuck in my throat like unwanted c*m I was dying to spit out. Refusing your last-ditch advances until, in the end, you stopped trying to make me believe I was beautiful. And I stopped needing to hear it.

Jules

wonderfully moving... and true!