You Don’t Know How Brave I Am for Not Screaming
You had a long day of driving. I don’t dare wake you. I can ride it out. I can wait ’til morning. I can try to breathe. Except I’m not sure I can.
Sheets off. They’re sticking to me, and I can’t take it. I can’t take anything. I straighten my leg, point my toes. I shove my fist into my hip bone. Your breath is so steady. I wanna be steady too. I pull my leg up to my chest instead. It doesn’t help. My knee brushes lightly against you. You don’t move. I make it brush you more. I want it to wake you. I want to tell you I can’t. I want to hear you moan with pity, with worry. I want someone to worry, someone other than me.
What a foul feeling. I’m rotting from the inside, I’m sure of it. I’ve never been in so much pain. I always think that. I always forget. When was the last time? How bad was it last month? It was bad on Tuesday, too. I keep my mind busy as a new wave grips me. Oh god. The pinching is sickening. What is that? The bladder? The ovary? The bowel? I miss not knowing the names of these parts.
It’s so deep. I feel faint. Can I fall if I’m lying down? Will that wake you? I wedge my fingers deeper into the hipbone to pull things apart. The rot echoes from my navel to my groin to my thigh. The back of my hand comes to silence my mouth. If I bite it, will I bleed? Or am I too anaemic? My throat is heaving. My…
