Chaos is a good planting soil
It's tense, the warmth here drained out slowly but surely as conflict does to joy. There are no more warm greetings in the mornings. No more casual interactions. She glowers and barely musters a response to any words said to her. I stay mute behind a neutral mask and am haunted by the taste of blood.
One wrong move, one wrong word, and my mind tells me the taste will be real. "Say nothing, do nothing, become nothing. Nothing cannot be hit. Cannot be harmed. Cannot even be struck at."
It's been a long time since I've had to rely on these mechanisms to keep harm to a minimum. Keep a face like a mask that can only be interpreted by its viewer, but never let it appear anything but neutral. Eyes down. Breathe quietly. Step silently. Do not ask anything unless it is critical. Do not speak, you will say the wrong thing. If you leave, you are weak. If you stay you are holding a shield that withers by the day. By the hour. Under the constant assault. Of a man who's not even here.
She is angry or hurt, I can't tell which. But she's closed, and over her face I see his. Always calculating, always seeking out my weakness, always wanting to find what will hurt the most. And she blames me for it all.
Not publicly. To the world she's open, there are no wrong questions, and everyone gets a say. But not here. Not on the Monday after. Not under this same roof where a day ago she preached communication, forgiveness, compassion... Here today it is stony silence, reluctant responses, and compete avoidance. These are not the same woman.
I feel the lump in my throat that has not budged since the meeting yesterday. Standing in the kitchen hearing every word like a razor blade across my soul until my breath hitched and I had to escape. The lead weight in my chest where my heart is supposed to reside beats sickly and heavy. I am dying.
This feels like death.
Rum dulls the sideways pulse that I can feel in the bridge of my nose, mimicked in the way my lower lip quivers unless I bite my inner cheek. Blood gushes and mixes with the alcohol. It burns. Let it burn, let it distract.
But it's feeble. The words don't end. I'm drowning in air, and no one in this room can see it. Only that I look panicked or shocked. But then I have to put on the show. Smile, try to remember some small detail of a past conversation, pretend my nose and mouth aren't filling with water right in front of them. Do they see?
No. How can they? But they know something is off.
They ask. They touch my arm and offer a shoulder. Some ask extremely intuitive questions. Some accidentally strike a nerve. That almost hurts more.
I am silenced. Vines with thorns grow ever more tightly beneath my skin, wrapping and digging. Vines bearing her name. While she holds pruning shears inside and a key to release this.
Blood is all I taste anymore, bearing down on the pain to keep it in check. Whatever grows here will be watered with it. Nurtured by it.
What could happen with chaos as the potting soil and my own blood for sustenance? What might grow?
One wrong move, one wrong word, and my mind tells me the taste will be real. "Say nothing, do nothing, become nothing. Nothing cannot be hit. Cannot be harmed. Cannot even be struck at."
It's been a long time since I've had to rely on these mechanisms to keep harm to a minimum. Keep a face like a mask that can only be interpreted by its viewer, but never let it appear anything but neutral. Eyes down. Breathe quietly. Step silently. Do not ask anything unless it is critical. Do not speak, you will say the wrong thing. If you leave, you are weak. If you stay you are holding a shield that withers by the day. By the hour. Under the constant assault. Of a man who's not even here.
She is angry or hurt, I can't tell which. But she's closed, and over her face I see his. Always calculating, always seeking out my weakness, always wanting to find what will hurt the most. And she blames me for it all.
Not publicly. To the world she's open, there are no wrong questions, and everyone gets a say. But not here. Not on the Monday after. Not under this same roof where a day ago she preached communication, forgiveness, compassion... Here today it is stony silence, reluctant responses, and compete avoidance. These are not the same woman.
I feel the lump in my throat that has not budged since the meeting yesterday. Standing in the kitchen hearing every word like a razor blade across my soul until my breath hitched and I had to escape. The lead weight in my chest where my heart is supposed to reside beats sickly and heavy. I am dying.
This feels like death.
Rum dulls the sideways pulse that I can feel in the bridge of my nose, mimicked in the way my lower lip quivers unless I bite my inner cheek. Blood gushes and mixes with the alcohol. It burns. Let it burn, let it distract.
But it's feeble. The words don't end. I'm drowning in air, and no one in this room can see it. Only that I look panicked or shocked. But then I have to put on the show. Smile, try to remember some small detail of a past conversation, pretend my nose and mouth aren't filling with water right in front of them. Do they see?
No. How can they? But they know something is off.
They ask. They touch my arm and offer a shoulder. Some ask extremely intuitive questions. Some accidentally strike a nerve. That almost hurts more.
I am silenced. Vines with thorns grow ever more tightly beneath my skin, wrapping and digging. Vines bearing her name. While she holds pruning shears inside and a key to release this.
Blood is all I taste anymore, bearing down on the pain to keep it in check. Whatever grows here will be watered with it. Nurtured by it.
What could happen with chaos as the potting soil and my own blood for sustenance? What might grow?
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