Twist, Stab, Zip

You twist my wrist, like I twist my hair, in a manner that’s best suited to please your stare.

Then you stab my back, like the pain that stabs deep into my being. Hunger pains from trying to shrink into the twisted life you live. If I shrink enough, maybe then I’ll fit into that dress you like so much. Maybe I’ll fit that empty, gapping hole that this life leaves you peering into. But as I zip up the back, the zipper stabs too.

God, I hate that dress. I’m starting to think I hate you too. But you love that dress. And I think you like me. This game is getting old, these constant twists, stabs, zips.

Now you’re pissed off, and we’re late to dinner. I think I’ll have the merlot, and whatever meal you think will maintain me to your liking. And then we’ll leave. You will go to bed satisfied, I will go to bed insatiable.

And in the morning, whenever I wake, and you twist my wrist for whatever god forsaken reason, I will turn around, look in the mirror, and I will twist my hair.