There is a hurt, it is easy to see it on her face. It lies just under her eyes. If you stand next to her, you can feel it. She doesn’t look at you, because she’s afraid you’ll ask. She’s afraid you’ll ask if she’s ok. She’s afraid she’ll lie and you’ll walk away and leave her. She can’t tell. There is a pain in her side. If you try to touch her, she’ll crumble in your arms like a child. She has no more fight, no more forgiveness. The words are all prepared, why she can’t be there. Why she can no longer come out to play. There is a line for every question. A one word answer for every kind look and ‘I miss you’. She is walking away from you. She is always moving, looking for a comfort that can’t be found. If you look at her closely you can see her tomorrow. She is the woman who lives in her make-believe, she is the woman who longs to see the daylight on her skin. There are options, people say there are, so it must be true. Their words are all prepared. They’ve been told what to say, and how best to say it. She isn’t listening, their voices sound rehearsed. She can see straight through you. Your eyes are open and warm, nothing sits under them. Your voice is steady and calm, not shaky and laden with tears. She’s leaving, and all you can do is watch her. Watch her move slowly through a crowd of strangers, her head tilted slightly to the left. She’s letting the dying heat warm her best side. She’s letting her heart settle and her eyes heal. She’s taking herself home.
May 1, 2011