Terms & Conditional Affection

A conversation about self-inflicted scars, and the silent blows others unknowingly inflict.

I smile with an earthquake tremble and avoid his eyes when I mumble this next sentence because I am afraid of his reaction.

"I used to hallucinate a lot. I heard voices telling me to kill myself. I tried to, many times."

In the dark, he does not see my scars; he walks his bike next to me and the conversation flows easily and I can’t tell if it’s the meth talking or the 40oz but through his own retelling of suicide and strength not to pull the trigger, he doesn’t hear my sigh of relief and he doesn’t notice the earthquake pass.

I frown with a fat lip and my hands crawl in and out of each other nervously like newborn animals as I focus directly on them, not him, again, because I am afraid of seeing his face fall into a sympathetic mask like all the others.

"I’m crazy. I’m hard to deal with. Eventually, everyone leaves; it’s not their fault that they do, it’s not cruel abandonment. It just is. I’m not bitter."

He doesn’t miss a beat, and with earnest determination to make me believe and make me love myself and make me forgive myself, says what they have all said at one point or another.

"You’re not crazy. You’re perfect."

I bite my tongue but me and my scars want to know why I cannot be both.