I carry my love in the knob on the back of my neck. My depression in the space in between my eyes, numbing deep into my skull. My anxiety sits next to my kidney, heating, expanding, with every breath. It travels all over, tracking hot trails along my arms and down my back, pooling in my middle. It overtakes me sometimes. Heaving pants, hot and fast, dizzy head and blurry vision. As if I was dying. The small of my back tingles with all the things I did and things you didn’t say to me. The wall behind my eyes crumbles, like you did.
Your skin turned translucent, veins protruding, eyes glassy. Cold. Final moments on replay. The way your breath smelled like smoke and cinnamon gum. The heat of your arms around me, your cold hands on mine. The sacred sermon of conversation. I can’t remember your exact words, only your voice. Mumbled and soft, always speaking through a smile. When I said “I think I love you” and you smiled awkwardly and said “…” nothing.
Eyes searching for reassurance and finding none, only apology. My love slipped, infatuation evaporating. I all of the sudden saw the tilt of your jaw, the asymmetry of your eyebrows. Where I stood in your world; one step behind you. Always supporting, never the spotlight.
“I just… I’m not ready for love right now.” Slow and timid, as if afraid of rejection.
Maybe you should’ve told me that before we started spending our nights together. Before I kept a toothbrush in your bathroom. The more you spoke of excuses for lack of feeling the more my fingertips tingle. My spine like a rubber band stretched too far, my feet stuck like stones. In an instant I relived our moments, as if seeing as if for the first time. Your indifference. The way you would always look away, never meeting my eyes. Maybe it was never mutual. You gave me just enough to keep going, and when I wanted to leave you’d give me a little more. Bits and scraps of affection kept me pleasant. The understanding sets me on fire.
I remember it starting on the back of my neck, hot goosebumps and a trail of sweat. It overtook me, settling in my stomach and painting my hands. Crimson. Clenched fists hard and trembling. Your neck, bobbing up and down nervously, waiting for a reaction to your lack of declaration. My hands, wrapped around your throat, squeezing. Thumbs on your esophagus pushing and punishing. Turning pink underneath my fingertips, ringed with white, getting redder and redder. Almost purple now, crunching under the pressure. Glowing. Your fingernails scratching futility, leaving red crescent markings in their wake. Begging. Torn vocal cords, my handprints painted in black and purple. The fragility of bone, sagging as the darkness closed in. As your world narrowed into nothingness.
I wonder where it started for you. Did the darkness start at the edges or right in the middle? Did it take you from the inside or outside? Did you feel your tongue pressed against the back of your teeth? The fire down your spine? I felt you rattle and spaz, growing limp as you fractured and fell, veins bulging and begging. Crumbling. Did you look into my eyes?
You hit the floor with a soft thud, sliding out of my arms and onto the cold floor. Eyes crystal, sleek, and dark. I still feel your hands around me. Stinging. Relief and satisfaction pools in the small of my back. It ripples through my stomach and lazily slides to my heart. Where is the blame, on you for not loving me, or on me for killing you for it? Guilt does not become me, it washes off me in waves. I don’t know how long I stand there, watching your skin turn, seeing death take you. Watching you grow cold is like seeing a sunset. Beautiful. Your smell starts soon, like decay and worms, a black tar substance dripping from your mouth. Eyes staring through me, seeing everything yet nothing at all. Still.
Now, I forgive you.