Sawdust

Oh, joyful experiences, wonderful stories.

I hear he has a girlfriend now. One he likes so much he hasn’t even fucked yet. I hear he is happy. At least, that’s what his brother tells me.

I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to believe him, either of them.

I want to hear he is eternally damaged. I want to hear him whimper in his sleep; mouth closed, a small audible whine long and soft playing in his throat. I want to see his limbs twitch, a finger, a bicep, jerk violently when he dreams. I want to be part of his visions, I want him to see my face, all wet and white and haunting him. I want him to hear me begging for him to stop, I want him to feel my weak muscles fight his, I want him to see my mouth turned downward and bleeding in the corners. I want him to suffer, every night of his life. I want him to be sorry, so I can forgive.

I want him to be broken, just like me.

But he is different now. He likes her so much he hasn’t fucked her yet. That’s what his brother tells me.

It has just passed our two-year mark; two years since we screen printed t-shirts in the unfinished room. Sawdust coated the soles of my shoes, a pad, slippery on the cement floor. Escaping was impossible. Two years have passed, now, two years since he tripped my feet from beneath me. Two years since he moved on top of me like he owned me, like I was a small bunny he wanted to cradle silently in his arms, one palm over nose and mouth, perfectly still only for a moment before struggling for a way out. Two years since his palm had me by the throat, since he twisted my strands of hair around his fingers and pulled them out, one by one. Two years since he had me between his legs before I could even start crying. Sawdust chips, golden, blended with my hair. On my back, indecipherable patterns on my black sweater – a starburst of sawdust. He held me by the wrists.

The room smelled like sawdust. His skin smelled like sawdust, dampened. Bestial breathing.

I cried.
‘Look what you make me do,’ he said. My shoulders ached. My knuckles ached. My skull ached. My thighs ached. I realized I was paralyzed, and when I’d stand, my body would leave an impression in the sawdust blanket beneath me.
I cried.
He asked me for a ride home. It was supposed to rain. He didn’t want to walk in the rain. He hated the rain.
I cried. I wanted to kill him.
In my backyard, in the middle of the night, I took scissors to my hair and cut out the sawdust smell. I hate short hair. I only want to get rid of the sawdust.

But he’s different.
He has a girlfriend.
And he hasn’t fucked her yet.
At least, that’s what we’ve been told.

He is supposed to suffer too. He is supposed to want to slice open his gut, pull out a train of insides every time he passes that building.

I threw out my clothes with my hair and I shaved off thin layers of my skin.
Just to get the sawdust smell off of me.