A length of rope, not long enough for comfort, digs into my flesh. Totalitarian friction, leaving me—with irritation—just short of the pleasure you had been promising. You wheeze, the dust unsettled in the room hindering your completion.

I had wished it over soon; the curvature of shadows was unsettlingly reminiscent of my childhood bedroom.

Those were the dark spaces between my screams, moments when
reality was no longer a daydream.

Stripped bare, I hold you in my hand. Between us is an unspoken truth: we lie staring at one another. Your languid love irritates me; while sleeping, you fed my life exhaustion with your deep breathing.

In your wood-framed mirror, I admit to my lacklustre existence. I dig my nails into the palm that satisfied you. My pulse trips—one beat tethered to the next.

Face expressionless, I perform a reapplication of lipstick and a spray of perfume from her bathroom shelf. I stink of her. Is my smile now her smile?

I walk through your house. A picture-laden mantle piece laboured beneath imprisoned smiles. You touch her face—a grayscale betrayal.

You wouldn't choose. Years have passed, and the elasticity of my once youthful resilience has become brittle.

One last finale, a useful crescendo: no longer a girl, I am a woman, holding myself within a prison. A mirthless smile on my lips, my feigned longing.

Baby toys were strewn across the living room floor, and children's hand-printed paintings are on the fridge door.

Your lies are more elaborate each day. I push you, manufacturing a translucency through angry accusations and not so gentle coercion.

"All I can give"—your words are unremarkable, unquestionable. Years lost.

My gift to you is finite freedom. Taking breaths, without you—strange—I keep on living.