you're too young & eager to love

I wrote this in 10 minutes. Honestly. I just kept typing. So, it's probably not very good.

I finished a school assignment, and now I have just enough time to make some tea before watching the latest film version of Jane Eyre with my stepmom. Woo.



-



What snaps inside of you is not your heart.

It is a brittle, disconnected thing. Something you never held too tightly.

-

You start to be disturbed by silence. In your youth, when you thought your womb was still capable, you listened to Chopin and Beethoven, daydreaming about the days when your growing child might hear their melodies. You try them now, but you are impatient with the nocturnes, bored by the jangling of keys. Mozart’s operas are thunderous, core-shaking.

Baker turns the volume down when he comes home (from work?) and is surprised by the ferocity of your stare.

Until you smile and smooth your sundress, telling him dinner will be ready by half past six.

-

He smells like forest heat and saxophone blisters. The taste of iron under your tongue. It makes you cry when he kisses you.

In his exasperation, your husband shakes your shoulders. “What’s wrong with you?” He thinks you are the stranger, when it is obviously him you cannot recognize anymore.

In the morning, you’ll suggest it was a tidal wave of hormones. Surging upward inside of you alongside a craving for shepherd’s pie. You will lie through your white teeth, and he will glance at your stomach hopefully.