The Invisible Woman

Somedays I want to scream at him. Really scream and swear and mebbe hit him a couple of times. Slap him back to hisself. Right across the chops.

I did once. Scream at him, I mean; Oh God I couldn’t ever hit him. I’m close to tears just thinking about doing that.

I’m close to tears a lot of the time. It’s the helplessness I think. Angry tears of frustration and indignation and self-righteousness. That’s when I’m thinking about myself; when I’m thinking about him, I’m either in that very Zen state of acceptance or I want to sob and be hugged.

And he won’t hug me anymore. That big hulk of a man is now just a big husk of a man. The big man who carried me on his shoulders for the first however-many-years of my life… The man whose arms I ran to when I fell, whose arms swallowed me when I came home upset, and whose arms I craved whenever my heart got broken. And now when it’s him breaking my heart, I can’t turn to him because he’s not there. He’s just a shell.

And I can’t gabber on at him about a brightness in my life… He won’t listen and laugh and twinkle his eyes at me, or brush my hair from my eyes when I’m excitedly relaying some story. And he won’t ask me to turn my radio down or turn the telly up.

I see him still. I see him every day and he never sees me. He’s in there somewhere asleep, but I can’t curl up so he finds me on his lap when he wakes up, because he’s not going to wake up. He’s not going to wake up.

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Often musician, sometime projectbloke, occasional table, sporadic writer, serial traveler, irregular designer, internet addict with OCLD.

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