Saturday, 9 April 2016

9. April. 2016.

You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one where you feel like the other woman after 23 years of marriage, his ring on your finger and the 5 children you gave him. The other 5 children he had before you, the ones who never forget to make you feel like filth,  like a home breaker, that make you live in fear. Because somehow they are always coming for you, the one that broke their home. Somehow their mother didn't tell them how she was long gone before you came. And now? After 23 years he still doesn't feel like yours and home doesn't feel like home, it becomes just a place you go to sleep. You need assurance, the house in your name, your signature as the other signatory to his accounts, your children in his will.

You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one where you are someone's secret.  Something to be hidden; in his car, bent to him as if in worship, gagging yourself with his penis trying not to vomit your feelings and your shame or walking into a hotel separately to the same room. There is no conversation;  you don't talk about his exotic girlfriend with skin like milk, you don't ask him why she is not enough, you don't ask him what he is doing with you, you don't talk about his likes or dislikes, you don't ask him how his day was, you don't tell him how you feel a little less woman and more like a call girl when you get his texts, "Where are you?", "Send me a video", "I want to see what panties you have on". You don't tell him how spend a little too long trying to get the best angle of your body, to look anything close to his girlfriend. And all he says after is "Nice"."Damn"."More".

You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one where you hide your scars with clothes, makeup and lies. You stopped exposing your arms with the dark red marks all around them from the cuts and bruises he inflicted. You started using concealer and foundation to hide the black eye and the map of his fingers when they slapped your face. You told stories about how you fell on the stairs, slipped in the bathroom and ran into the cupboard when your lights went off. You listen to him tell you over and over again that he will get help. You look at his desperate eyes and your legs become paralysed so you cannot leave. You love him instead because it is all you know.

You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one that leaves sawdust in your mouth when your husband introduces you to the 21 year old girl with fake lashes and red claws he is in love with and is going to marry. After you quit your job because he thinks you are ridiculous for wanting to work. After having two of his kids who always cried like bleating goats in the dead of the night robbing you of sleep. After becoming this fat unattractive thing because all you did was stay home to cook food you ended up eating alone. The love that destroys you from your soul, the one that reminds you of your wretchedness, the one you warn your daughter of; that sometimes the worst things come in the name of love.

Monday, 4 April 2016

4. April. 2016.

The past is always heavy with us, could have beens, had beens, sometimes just memory with the bias of remembrance. Memories casted in a different light, given deeper implications. Remembering the past like an ecstatic director bringing his favourite monochromatic piece to colour. Everything is brighter, louder, attractive. There are reminders everywhere, following you, haunting you.
You now listen to Cold play's Magic and you think about him, the weather that night, how his eyes lingered, his musky breath. You remember feeling liquid from his touch, legs turned to water when his lips met yours. The lyrics and the electrifying voice of Chris Martin the only battle to the silence, how you felt transported, unable to think. How you gave yourself to someone for the first time. Now you listen to Magic and remember the blinding pain when he left some months after for a lightskinned girl with a squeaky voice and the most annoying laughter.

For some it's a movie. "Mr. Bones". You remember how you and your three siblings sat on the floor too close to the television screen, laughing at the almost naked man with no idea of how things will be so different later that night. The youngest cried against your dress and you hid his face so he did not see the strangers hit your mom, again and again in the stomach. Your dad was tied up to the chair with a swollen mouth helpless. Your other two siblings were hiding in an unknown location in the house, praying not to be discovered.

Sometimes its a date. 2nd of April 2013 in the hospital that smelt of death. He had been in a coma for 2 months. Unresponsive. You had been by his bedside all that while, talking to him about everything and nothing. Sometimes just pleading with him to wake up. Telling him you forgive him, begging him to forgive you for being unreasonable, for not listening to his pleas. 2nd of April 2013 was the day his parents gave up and signed to take him off life support. You had been brave, fighting the doctors and nurses anyone who tried to come close to him to take the tube away. It's 2nd April 2018 and you're in your bed crying yourself away like you just lost him.

Sometimes it's a place that becomes a bag full of memories. The university, it had been six years since you left but you remember everything, even now, driving through the school to pick up your younger brother for the holidays. You remember the hard days, the less difficult ones, the archaic set of rules, the secrets, the insecurities, friends that were not really friends, the many empty relationships, and her. Her laughter that was everything, holding hands to sleep, staring a little too long without caring how awkward it would be if someone noticed the way you looked at her longingly. It wasn't just a friendship, it was more.