Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if my thighs didn’t rub together. If I couldn’t feel my breasts against my diaphragm, if my nails were not so brittle and didn’t break so easily. There are times I wonder what kind of world it would be if my shoes didn’t wear out on the sides and what would be going on if my feet faced forward as I walked, and not toward each other.
Oh and I can only dream of the possibilities if my hair behaved as it should. If it would not shrink just when I want it big and frizzy.
It’s a love/hate relationship really, when everything is just not acting right. When I wish I could peel the layers off my body just like an onion, or break some of this “ugly” down like some Lego blocks.
Now him, he loves everything about me. He loves how I tilt my head to the right sometimes when I’m in deep thought, or how I hang onto his every word when he’s talking about his day. He loves my hair; teasing the bees hived in my afro. He does not want to change me and he could care less about my concerns about my body. He does not want to change me, for he knows it is with these flabby arms I embrace him and with this overworked heart that I love him.
I can firmly say he loves these things about me because like a gem he hides me and keeps me hidden in the cleft of his love, never to see the light of dawn. Always to know where I am and what I am doing. Always to be near me so that he could stare at my face, and partake of my lips.
Now he, his greatest fear is that one day I will find something better and move on. Leaving him all alone and denying him the pleasure of my smiles, my hugs and my company.
This morning I awoke with my body tissued with fear, nerved and blooded with anxiety and boned with worry, all held together by my delicate soft skin. I could not shake this feeling; I could almost taste the fear, a raw and heady brew on my tongue. He called me up saying he has a wonderful surprise for me, how he wants to treat me and make me feel beautiful, because he knows I’ve had a long week.
It was later I understood my intuition was wrapped in confirmation. The very same skin he loves to touch and kiss, he took a knife to. He tore my throat through and through with a small, cheap pocket knife and left my beautiful, bountiful body buried beneath fallen trees and withered leaves on the beach. Driven by the slap in the face of my late arrival, and his fears grabbing his hand and whisking him away.
As the sky’s orange tint hemorrhaged beneath translucent skin, the hand of the divine surgeon made the primary incision spilling forth crimson hue into the sea; a light saddening red stretching and staining, even to the sand. To my limp body beneath a mass of foliage. Through a slit in the leaves above me, my cold lifeless eyes, once beautiful and adored in its honey glory, stares, as darkness evades and the horizon’s flat line brings the death of day.
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