This Tastes Quite a Bit Like Arsenic
A Woman Fed Up
This tastes a bit like arsenic.
Your smug smile is a harsh reminder of your Swift backhand against my cheek. Oh yes, I remember the good times. The laughter and love we exchanged shrouded us from the gravity of our failing relationship. Today is the last day your words cut me. I want you to feel the pain of every blow, like the stairs you pushed me down.
I look across the dining table at you and I can see it now. You struggle for breath, a look of utter shock and despair. What’s wrong dear, do you not like the food? I made it just for you. I made it with love. Like the love you had for seeing me cry and beg.
Was it fun dear? Was it fun seeing me down and bleeding on the floor? So much pain exists within these walls. It’s suffocating, like your hands around my neck. You stand so proud. Your head held high, putting on a show for the world. No dear nothing is wrong. I’m just happy you’re home.
You’re growing pale dear. Are you sure you’re alright? It’s getting dark out. Like the light fading from my eyes as I see you’re face coming at mine. Do you get off on watching me fade way?
I’ve withered away. I’ve been stuck under your thumb. Like a child with a magnifying glass, you’ve burned the hopeful spirit I had. You’ve left me black and blue. There’s not enough foundation to cover the scars you’ve left on my heart.
I find myself alone in the dark with only my arms for comfort. Pieces of myself littler the floor like broken glass from the bathroom mirror. I'm not proud of what you’ve made me become. I’ve lied to myself over and over again. Maybe next time it will be different. Maybe next time…
Next time the towels will be arranged just so. Next time I’ll wear that outfit for you. Next time I’ll be a better woman. The woman that you so very much deserve. The woman who never fights when she’s mad. The woman who knows when to keep her mouth closed. The woman who knows when to open her legs.
No dear it’s not hot in here. Maybe you’re ill. Like all the times I’ve been ill from worry. The worry that tomorrow it might be worse. Is this my last breath? My lungs burn as I struggle for the will to live and to push on.
I think sometimes who I would have been had I never met you. Would I be happy? Did I accomplish my goals? Is that dream job mine? So many questions I’ve felt I’d never know the answers to. Just wild dreams stuffed down into the old shoe box under the bed. That’s where they go to die, my dreams.
As we sit here, I try to remember if there was ever any love. If there was ever any spark. There must have been something between us. It must have been enough, something special. Not that I’ll ever remember what I saw in you. As I sit here across from you all I see is red. Pure hatred for the person you are, for the man you claim to be.
What’s the matter dear? Was the food too bitter for you? You loosen your tie, but it’s too late my dear. Do you feel your heart racing? A ringing in your ears? Tastes quite a bit like almonds doesn’t it? I bet the room is spinning isn’t dear. Confusion sets in as I smile with arsenic in hand.