It may have started as passion, but all I can remember of your hands on me is the feeling of being wrung out like a dish rag. But you didn’t fold me up and tuck me away safely when it was all said and done. You just tossed me into a sink of dirty water and walked away. And that’s not just some gloomy, poetic way of putting it; it’s more than a metaphor. You turned your back so you wouldn’t have to watch me drown. The few words you spoke in the following days fell silent on the water before they reached me, but it wasn’t as if you were apologizing.
But I’ll tell our story two ways because a greedy ear from a few months back reminded me that “there are two sides to every story.” I won’t argue. Here’s another view.
Your fingernails were too short to carve into my back and my hips. Instead, you left your marks on my neck, my shoulders, my collarbones – far too dark to fade under makeup. Everyone could see them, pulsing harder than my heart and glowing brighter than my eyes. But then they’d look for you, and I’d stare ahead knowing the look they’d give me when you weren’t there. Alone, I disgusted them. Had you been there, I’m sure they’d understand and go on with little more than a smirk. As if I wasn’t broken enough in my own eyes, you wounded me in theirs.