His wife was Patient Zero.
Empty bleachers,
Women on his playing fields.
He called her adjectives.
Later, me too.
Beautiful women for fun and games.
He cut me with
you can come if you want
then named my bleeding
insecurity.
He hoped I would shrink
into his vision of
reasonable.
Small.
Quiet.
But I kept banging on the walls
with his wife,
who drowned herself
to float away from him,
beside me.
That winter
death squatted in my house,
cradled me in my bed,
whispered:
Get out.
I started packing.
My pulse weakened
but refused to quit.
Now when I hear widower,
I don't think
man mourning his wife.
I think empty bleachers.
I think games he played with women.
I think about who is telling the story.
His wife was Patient Zero.
I was almost Patient One
but I'm still banging on the walls.
About the Creator
Tina D. Lopez
I’m just a human trying to make it in this world. I write about heartbreak, loneliness, longing, anger, family—all the things I can’t seem to leave alone. Everything I write is about me, even when it’s about someone else.
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