v u l v a l i c i o u s
mark it down
i should hold onto this for later. for reference, for ammunition, for ice, for heat. write it down, make tic marks in column a, column b.
because i was sitting cross legged on the kitchen floor while you watched television in the other room. i was hungry and defeated and on the verge of tears.
(lately my depression is heavier and heavier and sometimes it pushes me down until i give in and sit and do not move, just let as much quiet gather round as will and breathe until i feel tears forming)
and the dogs came and kissed me, and you walked by on the way to having a cigarette and told me i looked pitiful sitting on the kitchen floor before you opened the sliding door and sat outside. and you came in and didn't say anything, only went back to the television and left me alone.
and i guess what i wanted was for you to sit down with me and take my hand and then stand up with me and pull cans off the shelf as i washed the pan, and together we'd have made dinner, and you would have kissed me while it was heating up, and you would have rubbed circles on my back and let me turn and put my head on your shoulder.
dinner would have been made just the same. as it was i sat for another 5 minutes, stroking my own hand and thinking as many good thoughts as would come. i walked through the steps of assembling the easiest dinner i could imagine. and i stood up and i did it alone.
walking in to the living room with my bowl, you stared at me from the couch and asked me to fill your water.
it felt like the most insulting thing you could do, to lie there and look at me and ask me to get you something when ten minutes earlier you had walked by me to come lie back down.
but i took your glass and i poured the water, because it's what i do. service, service. whether you appreciate it or not.
you thanked me, of course, but as i sat down i let the thought bloom in my mind: write this down and remember it, because this is not ok. something is not ok.
we want this life that we have together, this home and these things and the comfort. and sometimes it is enough. and sometimes it is not. and i never know anymore which day will be which.
(earlier you read to me, a story that i'd heard before, but one of your favorites that you wrote. the sound of your voice soothes me, and as i listened my eyes closed and i drifted into the story and it was perfect. it was perfect until you told me i had fallen asleep as if it was an accusation.)
i have written it down. all of it, i hope. none of it, i know.