He Says, She Says

he says she says 'live like no tomorrow.' every moment that we borrow brings us one step closer to the edge—infinity.

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She says she hates him. She says that she was fine before he came and melted her heart like a candle. She says hates him, says hates how he makes her feel: like there’s hot wax sliding inside her lungs, like she’s burning from the inside out, like she can’t breathe. Like that choked hope bubbling in her chest as she hands him the first flower he ever picked for her―the one she pressed between the pages of her heart, the one she kept perfectly preserved.

 

She says she hates how he makes her feel: like he’s why she breathes.

 

And when he gracefully closed his long fingers around that flower and squeezed tight, it was like her lungs collapsed.

 

Now she cries as she tries to color her world, broken crayons crumbling between her trembling fingers. She knows, she knows, she knows it’s not supposed to be like this, but still she streaks red on the walls because that’s the only color she knows.

 

She hates how his lips form those words, “I’m sorry, baby.” She knows he’s about to spill another sob story, another lie. She knows he's about to spin another story about how he’ll change this time, another lie about how he cares about her more than the alcohol. She knows there’s no such thing as second chances, but it doesn’t stop the tears or the hope, and it doesn’t stop her from letting him through the door.

 

She’s never known why she was here―an unhappy townhouse, in an unhappy town―never known why she exists; she's a little girl lost in a lie. She’s here under false pretenses. She pretends she loves him; she pretends she forgives him; she pretends she cares about everything anything. She pretends she’s a fairy girl, but then she remembers that she lost her wings. She sits on her front porch and waits for her wishes to shoot across the sky, on fire, but it’s not like stars fall by themselves.

 

She’s tired of ripping off the best and she’s tired of stealing herself from everything around her. She doesn’t know who she is and she’s finally realized that she doesn’t want to.

 

He says he loves her. He says that she’s the reason he’s here, that she’s started a revolution in him. He says that he’s not afraid to die, that he’s not afraid to change. He says that she makes him feel like he can save the world, like he’s superman, like he could be her superman.

 

But he says a lot of things.

Author's Note

And when she can’t take it anymore, she runs to the arms of her imaginary friends, and she imagines that she is loved. She pretends that the raindrops are the angels tears, and that the sun is setting just for her.

And so she makes it to tomorrow.

I wish I could file this under "prose." It is neither a story nor poetry. I suppose I could rewrite and edit this, turn it into one or the other, but I think that this form suits her best.

I've decided to capitalize this because it apparently bothers a lot of people when writing is not capitalized, and I'd hate if something as simple as aesthetic form turned people off my writing.

Reviews

[Emily Quinn]

What a sad, sad poem told through the heart of the abused. I absolutely loved the analogies you used to help us visualize, to feel what she feels.
"now she cries as she tries to color her world, with broken crayons crumbling between her trembling fingers."
"...she hands him the first flower he ever picked for her―the one she pressed between the pages of her heart..."

Beautiful words William

[Ice QueenJen]

What a great story about the life of a troubled woman living in a abusive relationship. It touched my heart, and how my last relationship was..... he said lots of things too!

[sarahofsparta]

I thought this was really good. The last line, expecially, hits hard.