He makes my heart a cinemascope screen :: SOTD (Advent Calendar Version – Day 7)

Jody Hewgill

Keep Art Alive :: Art by Jody Hewgill

If I’m butter,
if I’m butter,
If I’m butter,
then he’s a hot knife.”

Three years, give or take a few break it and bring it right back lost weekends, we had gathered an arsenal of fatal weaponry. It happens when two people come together this way, when convenience and loneliness merge and meld into something we say is love. Settled, well, I suppose we did, but at the time we thought our actions were unique, authentic, and a hand clasped shared kind of freedom. Every box I filled whispered a delicious song of escape, but every box I emptied came with a chest tightening feeling of “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Why did I not realize I could have packed up and left on my own?
At such a young age, why did I believe I would never find something better, or many somethings better?
There was a whole world out there waiting, cities and countries that I may have loved, or loathed, or been bored by. But, they were there, waiting, with no rule of entry that I had to be the other half of someone else.

Bygones, though, as hindsight is all twenty-twenty, and “shit like that”. We made decisions. We attached each other to each other through so many invisible cords. When the threat appeared that I wanted to leave all the stops were pulled out. Love and attention, love and affection, love and smothering arms and legs pulling me so close I could not breathe anymore. A moment of peace may not have changed my mind, but all the cover and smother, well, he might as well have hit the gas for me.

The weapons, all sharp knives and barbed wire, whip smart words whispered, screamed and unedited, left us bleeding out onto the floor. Fast, furiously feverish fear made me pause, grab his shaking hand, pleading wordlessly for him to “try one more time”. But it was over, the credits were ready to roll, and despite all the blood I made it out the door; hot knife still in my left hand (you never know when you will have to cut and run, again).

Baby, darling, love love love, weren’t we once just like a movie?

Hot Knife :: Fiona Apple

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