dancing the divide
Sometimes it’s a dilemma, the kind of choice that leaves you gnawing your nails to bits beneath the bedsheets. Sometimes it’s as simple as walking away, knowing that you can’t carry everything. If only the road wouldn’t keep splitting, if only your head didn’t split along with it. (You’re wallowing now and this realization snaps your shoulders back in reaction, leaves your jaw aching and a wind in your belly.) There are days when you wake up, last night’s sour taste against your teeth and your pants missing. Again.
Your mother called last night. You turned your phone off, knowing how she gets after three weeks of silence. You’re afraid to speak, afraid to derail the line of conversation with another confession delivered on a choke. She brings it out in you with her sodium pentothal sympathy until you’re stammering and embarrassed. Secrets can’t keep themselves, and you march into the backyard, shovel in hand, and proceed to bury the phone.
You didn’t go to work the next day, and the next, and the next, and that weekend you met your coworker at the bar, who then divulged that you were fired. You drink some more, consider the idea of sticking your tongue in her mouth, for you more exploration than conquest. You content yourself with what you hope is an appropriately mysterious yet vaguely regretful look before you stagger into the bathroom and hang your head over the toilet.