Content warning for descriptions of violence
I’m going to hit him. And he’ll fucking hit me back. Because that’s what he does. He fucking hits me. But his mouth just keeps running. And my fingers tap. And my wrists itch. And my jaw sits tense and tight. Clenched like his fists at the end of the night. And the truth is, I won’t ever hit him. I’ll come in sharp with the words. Cut the tension of his fucking, bullshit monologue. And as the cord snaps back the recoil will be his hands at my throat. And he’ll squeeze too hard. Like the too-quick palm closing over lightning bugs in summer. And he’ll toss me room to room. Dandelion seeds breaking away from the over-zealous tug. And I’ll plant blood across the threadbare, stained carpet. And they’ll bloom next spring as puckered scars across my toes. They’ll flourish, broken blood vessels below my eyes, careening across my cheek bones. And they’ll wither in the cold when the electric in my veins is out. When there’s no one home to pay the bills. As the heat leaves me in floods. And I’ll have to carry this baggage beneath my eyes because I fear the weight of sleep. And I’m unsure where else I can keep it. Because I’ve only ever owned broken bones and tired eyes. I’ve only ever owned a bloodied nose and spent muscles. So I’ll gnaw at these roots that ensnare me at the ankles. I’ll rip myself from the flesh of this space. And my mind will sleep somewhere else tonight, while my body waits for the next gust of wind to come and plant me back across the floor of this broken home.
And I won’t ever fucking hit him.
Emily Perkovich is from the Chicago land area. When she is not traveling for work she spends her time in the city with her family. She is previously published with Wide Eyes Publishing, Witches N' Pink, and Awakenings.