Smile for the Camera

The light is soft. Green leaves on the bushes, small wild roses blooming. They stand side by side in the garden. Their family waits in a ring, cameras clutched in their hands.

She has her arm awkwardly around her sister's waist. Her sister's dress is blue, strapless, and draping to the ground as it brushes against the grass. She is wearing tights and her short black dress. “Get closer.” Their grandmother calls. She waves her hand in emphasis as she looks through the small viewfinder of her ancient camera. They uncomfortably move closer together. That’s good,” says their mother. ‘Now smile like you love each other.”

They smile. Awkwardly. For graduation photos. For their parents and grandparents. They smile.

Like they have done this pose a million times.

Damage It All

Shh.
I'll drift you quiet in the night,
kiss you back upon the face
of the mountain,
dry your tears and lie,
saying it's alright.
But you, your lips
carved in stone, eyes sunken pools
upon the surface
of the water,
you smile only for the pleasure
of someone I've never met
and I know
there's no chance for me,
to pry the corners of your body
open, lick you down
and wash the memories of another
man away from you.
So I bite my tongue
and the blood runs dear, sticky
and sweet, a sugar
coating to my words as I try
to slowly strip away your defenses
and damage the two of us
beyond all repair.

The Doctor

Every Tuesday morning he sits down in the second and final chair in the room and asks my husband what he’d like to talk about today. He always opens the door 30 seconds before 11 o’clock and then smiles when he sees my husband sitting there, as if he’s forgotten there’s no choice for either of them in the matter. He shuts the door quietly, without the general clack and bang of metal and wood attempting to fuse together in a way that should have never been made possible, and I find myself standing on the other side of the door in contemplation about the situation, just like every other Tuesday morning.

            

The dusty, gray blinds smoothed up against the window that make no noise as they swing back and forth, the sterilized silver of the door handle covered in the gentle grip of fingerprints and the little metal plaque below the window with the letters ‘Dr. Allaway, Psychiatrist’ engraved upon it.

           

I enter the room at 20 after and as usual, only the doctor notices, his eyes flickering to me before going back to the papers on his lap. He’s finally lost that scared, nervous look of uncertainty he thought he’d been hiding every time he laid eyes on me. My husband’s eyes remain fixed to whatever spot on the floor he’s focusing on, attempting to remain within the silence.

            

I probably should be calling him my ex-husband though, yet I can’t manage to staple the words down onto my tongue and force them to stay. It’s strange how we find it fit to label those moments that once consumed our lives, it’s almost like I’m admitting a mistake. And yet here we all are, the man I decided to marry one day, seven years ago, the doctor in the opposite chair and me, a shadow against the wall.

           

And then the conversation starts, or rather, it attempts to. Perhaps this will be the day there is crying, the big, gushing tears that roll down my ex-husbands cheeks, filling his lips with a saltiness that drowns out his apologetic pleas, that he didn’t mean to do it.

            

Or the rage that has nowhere to be directed. The chairs are bolted to the floor and there is nothing else within the confines of the room. No little paintings of general scenery, puppies and children running through a sunny field. No shelving units, no tables or throw rugs. Even the blinds are behind a second sheet of glass.

            

But someway or another, the confession will break, my ex-husband on the floor or huddled in his chair, the doctor thanking him for his time and the guards’ soft knock at the door. They’ll carry him out; whispering soft reassurances, promises of applesauce for desert, medication, a rest and finally the door snicks shut once more, leaving the two of us alone.

            

He’s still sitting down, the papers abandoned on the floor beneath his chair, his hair going slightly gray at the roots in a way that’s starting to bother him, a few days growth outlining his face and the same tired resolution in his eyes as he finally looks up and meets mine.

            

I smile. He smiles, though not a strongly as I do. Tracing his face, I let my fingers walk under his chin and brush my lips against his, hoping this time he’ll be able to feel my skin against his.

            

Nothing.

            

He kisses me back, his hands tracing where my face would be if I were physical. “I’ll see you next week,” he whispers.

The Lines of Your Body

04/11/12
For S.

I like the lines of your body,
the stretch of your smile echoed
in the light of your eyes,
the easy-going nature in which you move,
the curves of your skin a shadow
beneath the lines of your clothes,
and I find myself wondering
what it would be like
to touch you,
tangle my fingers in your hair,
kiss you and not let go,
the weight of your pulse a steady beat
against mine and attempt
to climb into you in order to find
a name for these feelings
that I've been afraid of for the longest time.