What would’ve happened if every time she told a lie or merely spun the truth, a paper cut would appear on her tongue, the kind you get from licking an envelope a little too enthusiastically? Would her tongue still be swollen, or would it be softer? Every time she disregarded her own demise, she thought that she was the star of the world’s longest medical drama. I’d like to know what she thinks of when she lies in bed every night. Does she wonder what her life would be like had she acted rather than letting the eggshells pile up, leaving us to walk on them? What is it like to not blame my own blood for the anxiety I am only now feeling? I do everything I can to take my mind off her.
I used to pray every day, and now, the faith sticker peels off of the family car. Religion is now found in his hips. The sun swirls patterns across the expanse of his back and the concave portions of my chest. In the night, we are all sheets, stars, and sangria, semi-sweet chocolate kisses. Making his bed sacred ground, our bodies become erotic poetry. Every time my mind drifts to her, he reminds me that I cannot change her.
Is this how her story began: two lovers with limbs twisted, envisioning a morning with security, a growing family, and peace? He’s asleep next to me, and I fear that I am turning into her. He says I worry too much. I say it’s in my genes, that by controlling every part of my life, I will avoid turning into her. But he’s right. I feel like I too am beginning to lay eggshells, creating an environment that even I fear, with the snapping, sacrifices, and self sabotage? What is it like being a daughter who doesn’t resent the woman who birthed them? What is it like being a lover who never fixates on everchanging unknown? What is it like not fearing the entanglement between bloodline and chosen family?
The mirror reveals tired eyes, chipped nail polish, and waning faith despite us all sinning. Still, I yearn to be better. It’s the only thing I can hold onto as the world presses its weight onto me. I cannot run from faith for it is my name’s sake. Still, it feels easier having him as the adrenaline rush, the one who makes me realize resonant, renewed confidence. It feels easier to believe that for every paper cut I hear, a kiss will appear in its place.
I distract myself from the weight of her, beginning to pray again for rejuvenation. Praying for confidence to forge my own path towards the stability I need. So I attempt to make art out of eggshells like people do with broken teacups. On the mend and not completely broken.