1095 Days

By R.B. Simon

scars carve
your bare forearm
stretched above our heads
holding the camera.

even after a year together
the only way
you’d let me touch them
was in darkness, under covers,
your weave
of frozen agony.

above the frame
of your bare shoulder
you are made-up,
smile shy,
kewpie doll eyes engulfed
by pale face
blonde fringe brittle
from the absence of food
you were terrified to eat.

but it is your 29th birthday
and you are radiant
with celebration,
catchlights of amusement
play in your pupils,
the slant of your glossy lips.

today you feasted,
sucking life off bone
like a feral child.
reimagined your beginnings
like they didn’t matter,
daydreamed our future
like it would.

there will be just nine
more nights like this
before you’ll lie
paler yet to purple
lifeless
as you’d felt every other day.

---

R.B. Simon is a queer writer of African/Native/European-American descent. She has been published in multiple journals, including The Dewdrop, The Hyacinth Review, and Literary Mama. Her chapbook, The Good Truth, was released in July 2021 from Finishing Line Press. She is currently living in Madison, WI with her spouse, adult daughter, and four little dogs.