I swallow against the hand on my throat. Lean into the discomfort, it will all make sense one day. This is the stuff of character. I tell them, “this is not about you.” But, they sign their names to it anyway, claim me with ink. This is not about you.
I see someone else in the mirror and she hates herself and I don’t want to hate myself but I can’t stop eating meals and thinking how nice it was to drink only tea in a day. How clean it felt.
There should be a pill for this. Loneliness. They’d market it as a miracle drug and charge you an arm and a leg, literally. It would make you fall asleep and you would dream only in colours. Warm yellow folding you up.
We eat lunch in a window and I tell him that pregnancy scares the shit out of me, that I imagine the fetus exploding from my belly like an alien. His laughter reminds me of the summer but there is still snow on the ground and ice in the driveway.
I don’t put much stock in anything but when he finds me in the kitchen at midnight I lean back against his chest and let him make me small, packed tight between his arms. Full.
The fridge humming. The black mouth of the drain. Our darkness swallowing me up.