I saw a man with sad eyes on the bus today
and I did not think of you.
I did not think of you, I thought of everything but you. You were like a blank space in my mind, a cutout in the shape of your silhouette. You see, last year for my birthday, I made 12 new friends, and all of them were voices in my head, curling up from the bloody raw mess of my stomach, but you – I met you the day after and, oh, when I saw you, the voices stopped. For a few seconds, there was blissful silence, until you spoke and they all started up again, multiplied by ten, a hundred and twenty voices shouting at me not to kiss you. But I do anyway, and it’s beautiful.
A few weeks in, we get serious, and I meet your mother. I know she doesn’t like how the words ricochet in my head, she thinks I cannot love you with my sickness. I say she reminds me of Delilah, and when she asks who that is, I say it’s the voice that comes at me like a car crash and tells me not to eat. That night, we have sad sex, and there’s Delilah in my mind, saying I should not lay my lips on you. But I do anyway, and it’s beautiful.
It’s when we’ve been living together, one month exactly, that the voice that sounds almost like yours starts whispering that I should jump out our second-story apartment window, and I screamed and smashed all the dishes in the kitchen. I fucking shouted your name and you were crying and asking if I hated you now and no, God, God I love you, I love you so much my ribs break with the weight of it. You said you couldn’t tell who was talking anymore, so I wrote it on the wall, I feel your name in my bones. But your bags are already packed by the time the paint dries, and your mother is calling with her Delilah voice, saying she told you so. I’ve got porcelain in my hair the last time you kiss me.
And it’s not beautiful anymore.