Writing On The Wall

October 2015

He’s still at the bar.
I know he’ll be home soon, but lately he’s been frequenting more and more.
I know there’s a bartender he likes.
He looks at her with a look.
The way he used to look at me.
He doesn’t look at me like that anymore.
Lately he’s told me as such.
But when he gets home he’ll smile at me expecting dinner
Because that’s the only good I am to him now.
And I have to cook for him, because if I don’t he becomes shitty.
So I cook dinner for him.
For a man who just a couple weeks ago told me straight to my face that he

No longer loves me.
At least, “Not like he used to.”
But he really didn’t need to tell me that.
I already knew.
It was cruel of him to say.
But he figures, “Ah well, it’s been six years. Maybe we should try to work it out.”
Like it’s nothing.
So day after day, night after night, I wake up next to this man.
Attempt to be affectionate.
Attempt to do nice things for him.
Cook for him.
Being careful to clean up after myself so as to not trigger another “talk”.
Then I go to bed next to him.
We sleep, close to each other yet miles away.
Everyday I’m unsure of my immediate future.
Do I have to start packing?
Will I have to live with my mother?
Dear God.
This sucks.

He’s home now. So I’m expected to make dinner.

Of course. That’s what I’m here for.

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