What I know of survival is this: how to adjust my body around
the cool spots in bed, the way my hair is never exactly right
when I leave the house for a hopeful second date, the imprint
of my bra on my skin after coming home and letting my dress
pool at my feet. Sleeping, alone. Missing you and missing
you. I eat olives and arugula standing up in the kitchen,
wearing nothing except underwear and pearls. I do not
recognize myself. Being sad only makes me thirsty. I drink
two glasses of water, take an aspirin, dance with myself
slowly in the living room. Everything comes back to me in
moments– flashes of your skin, the freckles on your
chest, your perfect wrists, a kneecap, the small of your
back. I peel away the sadness to get down to the pit of the
thing and can never quite manage to finish it. My hands smell
like oranges, clove cigarettes. Pounds of sadness. I get out
of bed. I run the bath. Chocolate shavings and blueberries
for lunch. Little things, but I am handling it. Yesterday, I
almost called you to tell you that I love you, but then I
remembered I’m not allowed to say it anymore, and it is
awful. You are with me even when I brush my teeth.
— Kristina
Haynes, Love So Good That I Forgot to
Say Ouch