There is this feeling I get with you, sitting stiff and silent in my own home. Staring at you, bored and ignored, as you shovel my food into your mouth, spilling word vomit on the linen cloth I placed down. You ask about my day while your eyes burn into mine, searching for your own reflection. I tell you my secrets while you nod, ignoring the pleas stumbling from my mouth. You let your eyes drift lower- tracing the outlines on my white cotton blouse. I pick at my food while you scan my body, and suddenly I feel very tired and very sad. I want to cry and fall asleep on the couch- but crying isn’t as satisfying as it used to be. It makes my ribs ache and my head cloudy. It’s not worth the hurt.

So I’ll sit and look pretty, playing into your fantasy, listening to you complain about what a drag your new job is, interjecting at the appropriate times. I feel sad. I am disappointed in myself for wanting your attention when you clearly don’t need mine. I’m flattening myself, putting myself into boxes, forcing myself to be small. But still, I’ll sit through dinner and then walk you to the door, watching as you check your reflection in the mirror on the way out. Watching from the sidelines as you lean in to kiss me, while a sneaky feeling tells me that it is only to make you feel better. I back away quickly and you sigh, discontented, like I am the one doing something wrong.

I watch his car leave the driveway, watch as he fixes his hair, watch as he drives away. Then I stand lonely in the hallway wondering where parts of me have gone. Retracing my steps and coming back to the moment I first shook his hand.