I walk through the station, clutching my bag close to my body. I wipe my nose on the edge of my sleeve; it’s colder than it should be for a November this year. I board the tram and take a seat near the window, watching trees burst through long stretches of concrete tunnel. The ride always reminds me of it; the melodic drawling, “I always get lost when I leave the village, so I couldn’t come meet you in Brooklyn last night.” I walk the last two blocks and fumble for my keys. I take off my overcoat and shoes and make tea. My blouse leaves my arms exposed, so thin and vulnerable. In the overcast afternoon the skin inside my elbows seems whiter than before. My veins are dolphins, rising precariously close to the surface before dipping back down deep. I try and run my fingers through my tangles, unwashed and framing my forlorn face. Cupping my saucer, I run a bath. It’s odd how I only notice you in the small things; your toothbrush missing from the cup and the aftershave sized hole in the medicine cabinet. I strip off my jeans like a little girl, using my toes to grasp the hem. I shake off my blouse. It’s only when I’m naked that I burst into full bloom. Roses cover my shoulders like the cape of La Viergen. Constellations run down my spine and lines of poetry cup my breasts. I stride naked into the room where you once slept. I am beautiful, sexy and sweet and sensual. I can give birth. I can apply red lipstick without getting it on my teeth. I know a recipe for pineapple upside-down cake. Still wet, I lay on top of the sheets and watch the paper thin wings of my lungs flutter inside my chest. For every unkind word you left imprinted in my mind, for every time I was made to feel unworthy of your love, I have endured a hundred pricks of a needle. For every time I was made to feel weak, I have been stronger than you could ever be. For all the love I gave away, I have given it back to myself. For all the times I was made to feel ugly, I have imprinted a new work of art into my skin, becoming a Sistine chapel underneath my clothes. I have metamorphosed, broken from the suffocating cocoon of the relationship that wouldn’t die. You would not recognize me now.
Katelyn Watkins
