Worn for her

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He’s curled around her. His slim body, greyed hair, trapped under twisted sheets. His small hands collapsed on the small of her back, but he dominates her.

You can tell from her face, her resting face. She doesn’t look satisfied. She doesn’t look peaceful. She doesn’t sleep easily. Not last night, not any night.

He finds her when he’s sober and tired, and when she’s vulnerable and awake. When the moon’s hid behind the clouds and the TV’s blaring on silent, flashing images of made-up anchor women and men, switching to forest fires in Cali, and the rest of the world’s old news on rerun for the cities, who are just waking up, to tune in to.
It’s that early.

And the kids have just gone to bed. Friday night, curfew’s not necessary. They go out but only the lights in their room notice.
It’s that late.

When morning arrives, that’s when you notice her face, lying on a mound of pillows. Her mouth taught, but she’s used to it. It’s her job as a woman, as a wife.

It’s her job. There’s nothing personal about it. Never really was, never is. And everything that’s been said from the heart is a lie.

Don’t we miss the way it was when we couldn’t tell a lie apart; when we believed in lies with hope.





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