Ten Ways to Rid Myself of You
1. Suggest you leave of your own free will.
When your shoes stay comfortably in the hall and your favorite beer still stocks the fridge, I retreat to the bedroom, close the door, and pretend my face isn't wet, my chest isn't tight, and you're not here.
2. Tell you to leave...or else.
When you act puzzled, ask what you've done, I let the fragile clotting of old, unhealed wounds break, and I list off your sins. You listen, defend, now attack. Accuse. I retreat. Sitting on the floor of the closet, my head between my knees to quell the aching panic in my heart, I wonder if there is anything more than this:
Dust.
Dark.
Us.
3. Beg you to leave.
We circle one another in the kitchen like two half-feral cats spitting and hissing, readying for the battle that might start now.
Or now...
...or maybe now.
Exhausted, I squeeze my back into the tiniest space between the counter and the wall, sliding to the floor in a boneless I-give-up, and I beg. But I should have known better. This is your favorite version of me--wounded me, easy to pick up and carry off to bed me, unresisting me.
4. Leave myself.
Your naked skin sticks to mine, and I bite my tongue to hold the shudder behind my teeth so you won't hear it. The bile rises in my throat. The pounding of your thrusts almost shoves the hot sourness out of my mouth but I swallow it back.
Like my pride, my self-respect, my worth,
I swallow it all back.
5. Plan.
Listening to the heavy rasp of your breath tells me you're asleep. I'm safe to hunch over the toilet, dabbing away blood I'll never tell you about, and I plan how and when and where I will be free. Cash from the grocery store. Clothes left with a friend. A spare set of keys made at the hardware store. A lockbox in the town a few miles away.
6. Run.
My hands shake while I pack the car. My attorney says I have a good case. But your anger will be beyond anything my friends or neighbors can imagine. I've given up trying to explain you to them. All they see is the charming smile and the guy-next-door ala Americana. I drive away so fast I forget to close the garage door, but it no longer matters.
7. Stay strong.
When you follow me at night, I pretend I don't see you, but there's mace in my purse now. When you send me hand-written love letters professing your undying love, I light the bone-colored stationery aflame with the gas burner and hold my ears until the fire alarms turn off. My walls are strong. You made me this way.
8. Find stillness.
My friends, my therapist, even Oprah, say I must find the peace inside myself in order for happiness to find me again. I meditate, run, do yoga, drink cheap wine, and sleep too much. But eventually, I stand at a bar and when a stranger offers to buy me a drink, I accept.
9. Try again.
When you are no longer the stranger I met at the bar but a person in my life, I hold your hand and we walk in the park. We feed peanuts to fat gray squirrels chattering at our feet. Autumn winds aren't as cold when there's a sheltering arm to hide behind. I stand on tiptoes and kiss your stubbled cheek and whisper, I love you...
You burn so brightly, it would be easy to lose myself in us.
...am I lost before I've begun?
Who am I?
10. Suggest you leave of your own free will...