Gone?

"I want to be alone."

My mouth moves. That's my voice. But I don't recognize it.

Maybe it's someone else, I say. Maybe it's outside, carried in through the windowscreen?

No. It is the bell that can't unring.

It makes no sense, does it? To be alone? I don't want it to be permanent but his mind sounds made up. He's always for absolutes. I've always been too soft, too undecided. An undefined being, defined by her surroundings. I judge myself unkindly. Then step back.

My eyes swell. Uterus spasms violently. I don't pray, but pray anyways that the Nyquil kicks in before the panic. Before the urges. Maybe it's just the hormones. Maybe my weight changes continue to fuck with me.

I back pedal. Plead. Wonder at myself. Am I slipping? Is this me?

I can't imagine what it'll be like. I'm too numb. Too shocked at my own voice. Too shocked at how willing he was to go.

I want to be around good people. But fear their judgment. I then imagine being truly all alone. I get fear. Cold. Numb. My eyes still burn but I think the Nyquil's setting. I welcome the burning numb to take it away.

Coming home to an empty place. Will that give me what I'm searching for? The clarity? The peace? Sense of solidity?

He deserves someone who is already those things, I assure myself. He keeps telling me it's he who will be fine. I think I've just killed us. Or irreparably damaged it. Some call that art. I recall some Asian practice of gluing back together broken pottery with gold laced resins. The effect was more brilliant than anything that had been made perfect the first time.

I tell myself this is why it's okay.

I still don't know that it is.