He never knew I was a writer. Or that at least I write. He knew I studied Literature but he never asked what it was. He didn’t know I loved books but he knew I read. He never knew anything until I told him so. Still he never knew anything because he dared not to know.
Stir fry my body like that of pork fresh from a newly slaughtered pig. Include my fingers and toes to add you the blazing chills. So that when you eat it for breakfast, lunch or dinner your mouth will remember the infinitesimally rotten taste of the body you emptied thrice when you closed the door and left without a thinning word. Cut my limbs and put them onto a barbecue skewer then steam them til they wrinkle and complain. When you’re done, peel off my skin. Turn them into an armor and wear them like it’s popular; en vogue. So that the next time I throw back the hatred you gave me, you’ll not perish but you’ll reek with the irreparable blemish.
He never knew I was a writer. Or that I still am. He never knew how he came to be the words in my poems, the voice in my poetry I relentlessly listen to and sing at noon when it was the hottest and at midnight when it was the coldest. He never knew I wrote about him; us. Still he never knew why I couldn’t do that anymore. For what these pens and journals were for? When they were persecuted by their own coordinates and momentum?
Even after our marriage, he never was open and willing to know all about me. But I knew all too well about him because all those times we were together I tried learning and knowing all about him. Rubbing the rough edges of his skin, strumming the holes in his heart and blowing his inborn tattoo of hatred and insecurity off his body.
I knew I was a writer. I still am. But my hands, the pages in my notebook and the ink of my pen no longer recognized him. They could no longer be moved by his slightest thrill.
Many times I became exactly that weeping writer his heart forbade to view.