by Naomi E. Cornejo
Why do I suffer in silence? It has been a year since I met you. A year since I fell for a man, youthful at heart in his black skinny jeans, worn-out converse and punk jean jacket. You promised me the world and I, like a fool, believed you. I fell for your words through texts, about going to see Yosemite and you wanting to see my reaction to the glorious mountain views and waterfalls. About going to San Miguel de Allende, and walking down old stone-cobbled streets while holding hands. About going to Oaxaca to drink mezcal and learn some of my native tongue. I fell in love with you through our conversations at local bars into the holy hours or witching hours as I prefer it. La Cuevita was our spot on Sunday evenings, with the cool jazz playing in the background, my gin and tonic in hand, and those blue eyes of yours that had me trapped, breathless. You would kiss me, ravenously, endlessly in the corner, that corner that was dim and perfect for feeling you and tasting you. We are both Scorpios and the intensity was so fucking beautiful to me. You were so beautiful to me, all of you, alluring, beguiling.
Here I am now. Left with this taste of lavender tea with no honey. I feel as if chewed aspirin sits on my tongue. I swallow so I don’t cry endlessly. I swallow to stop the flow of tears from becoming an ocean in my bed. I lay here thinking, what the fuck happened? I have to remember that it’s not me. It’s your demons, haunting you. It’s your disorder that doesn’t allow you to be loved or to love yourself. I wanted you. I wanted to give you more than just my heart, but I realized that my heart would have been enough. I am enough. I am. Love.