why won’t you say it

She makes the words to say “let’s get the license”. She says this to me while planning her trip to see her children’s father. She will spend the weekend with him. She says I should trust her. Trust feels like a thread unravelling my coat, my skin, my resolve. I guess I knew for some time what she might do with some sleep, a haircut, and a new dress. Trust feels like thirst. Feels like the prayer and the danger. To cut her off says more about my character than hers. The road less travelled is so often travelled alone. One searing cry to God, my heart racing, the truth is both excitement and anxiety.

I clean the toilet alone. I notice she continues to buy plants. Her words are lies alone. The shape of God’s touch is foreign although I’ve experienced this, the truth, buried in the quickening pace of madness. If I can turn my face away, detach again, all this room and I don’t want to have to pick up the things I’ve laid to root. What is this fear for?

The blood in my mind is twisting, and she is all over me. All about my love, but leaving. “It’s not for you to understand she says”. She doesn’t want to explain it. She tells me that it’s about the kids and she’ll be back.

But the reason carrties no image of love. It has never been about love, and soon she’ll bury her kids in that filth, ridding herself of the guilt. I cannot live beside her guilt. And I have not…