Some days we’re like lovers in France. He holds me and tells me that I’m all his. I hold his hand and know that he is mine, forever. At times I whisper, “Iloveyous” into his crooked bones like a prayer. Other times I wander around his body trying to find something that would make me fall in love with him. He laughs at me for loving him but only after he broke my heart and before he broke my hand.
He says that I don’t know how to love, unless they are broken and need fixing.
“You don’t love, babe”, he says,“You try fixing what can never be fixed”.
I see in him a child who lost his way seeking shelter in an abandoned house hiding behind the sink so that the storm doesn’t knock him out. It is a game where we both hide and days go by before one of us is found.
On the good days he lets me in and we crash into each other like it is the only way we know how to love. Messy and destructive. On the bad days he locks me out and I become an immigrant in our house. Shunned and ridiculed. Last night, I asked him to tell me three good things about himself but he couldn’t answer. Then I asked him to tell me the three flaws he has and he stated a list.
“What about you?” he said
“I try fixing what can’t be fixed and I don’t know whether this is a flaw or a merit.” ,I replied