It’s thirty one days, since I spoke to someone else.
My observation doesn’t mean you’re not enough, it means you’re all I have.
Your eyes dart to desirable cars, glazed over, disinterested.
I stop speaking.
A painful, heavy sigh.
The language is coming slowly, but the confidence won’t follow.
Ignored and “unread” messages.
Food smears on my new dress.
Loose navy cardy hides my shame.
Hair in a tight bun.
Lines extending, deepening.
Reoccurring nightmares, the taste of sick in my throat.
No it’s worse yet, English.
Different and unwelcome.
Lonely and sad.
Isolated and afraid.
Grieving for a life I loved to hate.
Crying for a body I yearn to feel.
Wondering where on earth I might go, that I’d never be found.