I remember giving up on you

I remember too much

Art by Frida Castelli

I remember my heart racing as I approached the door, unsure of what I was walking into. I remember your white suv covered in mud on the bottom and cherry blossoms on top, petals fallen from the tree you parked beneath. I remember reminding myself to remember the cherry tree, to remember where I left my car. I remember feeling lost already, hot and unsettled in my skin, my organs retreating toward my spine, belly pulled in as you stood behind the glass door, watching. Time slowed as I tried to deep sigh, delicately lugging one leg up the steps, then the other, till I was standing in front of you. I remember you did not offer to help me with my bag that day and how you never did, even after I drove eight hours to see you. I remember wanting to feel your arms wrapped around my quaking skin. I remember being led to the bedroom where you had centred a chair in front of the bed. I remember my throat closing and my mind obscuring the familiar danger. I remember your affected voice attempting to demand, “you’re going to perform for me.” I remember you told me, “I’m not going to waste time taking you to dinner. Expect to be naked within five minutes of arriving.” I remember you as impenetrable metal. I remember feeling like prey walking into a wounded lion’s den out of pity. Here, eat me. I remember you felt dead already. Your words were poorly constructed. I knew they were held together with with mangled old pieces of duct tape. I remember kneeling on the bed in my navy blue crepey ankle length skirt with a modest slit, speckled with delicate flowers, chest tight and pounding, still trying to breathe through the anticipation of my deflowering. I remember wanting it to mean something. I remember you could not just watch for more than three minutes. Did you enjoy seeing me so uncomfortable in my body that I ceased to be a woman? You pushed me onto my belly and began teasing the skirt up the insides of my thighs. I remember enjoying it so much that breath returned to me and I remember myself dripping with the gentle movement of fabric across my skin and your firm hand on my lower back and your hot breath behind my ear. I remember every time we fucked wishing to feel that gentleness again, but only feeling your impatient, impenetrable, metal skin.

I remember giving up on you.