more
I should have documented how small the apartment was. I lived there with him for just under one year, stifling, choking, on top of each other but not touching, all of the pathways through the rooms too close together, too short, too little room for breath. It was so small, I’ll say later, but no one who remembers will want to remember with me, and no one who doesn’t will ever understand.
The deep scratches we made in the wood floor, the way it hurt me to look at them.
The curtains that went unhung, my careful but crooked stitches at their hems, lying in a heap, unused, useless, red birds and tomatoes.
How I ended up hating all of it, I hated my own labored breath, the way I tried to take up all the space so he would notice me.
Lost things. The strawberry potholder that fell off its nail and behind the stove. I asked him to move it and get it out for me. Over a year later, when I left that apartment behind, I remembered it and dragged the stove aside myself and retrieved it, dirty, dusty.
The way he looked at me with utter revulsion, the you did all of this implicit in his eyes. You did this to me, he looked. Him, the innocent. The wronged one. I let him think it, then. Sure, I looked back, and never said, you made me miserable. I lay in our bed and hated you for forgetting me.
The taste of bitter grainy dregs.
He will never say, I took part in our ending.
The deep scratches we made in the wood floor, the way it hurt me to look at them.
The curtains that went unhung, my careful but crooked stitches at their hems, lying in a heap, unused, useless, red birds and tomatoes.
How I ended up hating all of it, I hated my own labored breath, the way I tried to take up all the space so he would notice me.
Lost things. The strawberry potholder that fell off its nail and behind the stove. I asked him to move it and get it out for me. Over a year later, when I left that apartment behind, I remembered it and dragged the stove aside myself and retrieved it, dirty, dusty.
The way he looked at me with utter revulsion, the you did all of this implicit in his eyes. You did this to me, he looked. Him, the innocent. The wronged one. I let him think it, then. Sure, I looked back, and never said, you made me miserable. I lay in our bed and hated you for forgetting me.
The taste of bitter grainy dregs.
He will never say, I took part in our ending.