Spitfire Words

How I Disappear

It starts with, “please don’t fight. I hate it when we fight.”

Fighting is so integral that without it you are nothing like me.  But you comply because he says, “couples shouldn’t fight like this”, all accusation, no room for negotiation. You learn that fighting is never reasonable, no matter what you’re fighting for.

Next is, “I don’t trust him, really don’t like him. I stopped talking to her for you.” It doesn’t matter that you never asked him to stop. It doesn’t matter that your friends are falling away one “let’s stay in” or “it’s not fair of you to just leave me alone” at a time.

After a while it’s, “you don’t need to work. You wouldn’t like it anyway. What job would you get?”

And, “we can’t afford for both of us to drive.”

Independence, once valued and hard won through bitter battles is now forfeit. Because you understand that you aren’t qualified to work, haven’t as much experience driving.

It was once the three of us against the world, a mother and her two daughters. Big sister and eldest daughter almost a definition. Now it’s “she says she doesn’t know how you’d cope. She prefers your sister anyway” and “your sister’s replaced you already”, with a smother-soft “I’m on your side even though no one else is. I want you even though they don’t miss you”. He says like it’s a favour, “let’s not visit them today.”

You don’t debate anymore, not with anyone. So scared of being wrong where I am so sure of being right. But worse still, your defences are worn to withdrawal. No more screaming matches, no more scathing remarks or withering glares. At first you removed yourself physically, but he couldn’t bear not to talk it out, immediately, and followed you. Always. Anywhere.

All that’s left is that dark room in your head that echoes loudly with every spitfire word that never escaped your tired, placating smile.

Your thoughts are not yours. They’re unsightly graffiti painted over with his opinions.

Your body is not yours. It’s his to show affection to even when you don’t want his touch, it’s his to dress in clothes so different from mine because there’s no money and fiancees shouldn’t dress like teenagers (sluts) even at eighteen.

Your dreams are not yours. Impractical aspirations of my words reaching millions drowned under happy family daydreams of a wedding I never wanted.

I look at you and I feel so distant. I’m fading under his carefully constructed doll. His buttercream words too soft for me to fight against.

I’m crushed to nothing but a powder that itches your skin and stings your eyes when you remember me.

You’re erasing me.

Please stop.

We can be more, we can be something new. I’ll let you stay, I’ll share with you. You just have to fight for me. Just this once.

I don’t want to disappear.

Please. Plea-

 

How I Bring You Back

When I killed you I couldn’t escape the guilt, grief, fear. You were the fire at my core, without you I’m lifeless rock.

I fought for you. You never saw it, so much braver than I am, so much more violent. I dragged my feet, kept your words locked inside, wrote down your thoughts hidden safe in fictional voices.

When he broke you I gathered up your pieces and showed them to him. With the jagged edge of your petrified, dismembered tongue I cut away at all the strings that bound me to him until I was sawing at the cord tied around my neck, holding me suspended above the ground.

You would be proud of how when your tongue grew dull I tore at the fraying cord until it snapped.

The fall was so very frightening and you weren’t there to enjoy the thrill of it. Hitting the ground split open my skin, snapped my bones, but I pulled myself to stand on shaking legs. I need help to stay standing. You wouldn’t be so proud of that.

I thought maybe if I tried very hard, if I showed you how far I’d come that you’d come back. But you didn’t.

I thought I could glue you together with dreams and punches and relentlessness. My knuckle still bears a faint red mark that reminds me of you. I look at it sometimes and I can feel your ghost.