Flaw Salad

Consciousness comes instantly, brutally. Before you process morning or time or day of the week, you’re awash in flashes of the night.

Nausea and headache amplify the shame you feel in your chest. An enormous pressure bears on your heart. It prods in rhythm with your thoughts. Slut. Homewrecker. Whore. How could you?

How could you?

How could you? 

You check the time. You check your memory. Flashes of skin. Kissing in a backseat. Vast gaps in time. Panic.

Sweat accompanies panic. Nausea accompanies sweat. Your head pounds. You deserve this. You deserve worse. 

You find your phone and hope to find answers. A single sent text: “Chickenshit.”

Classy. 

Another flash from the night. He’s sitting across the table, and you watch him read your message. You want to see it sink in. You hope your eyes say, “I’m serious,” when he finally looks back at you. You dare him to make a move.

Instigator.

Shame overwhelms you. How could you lose control? How could you cross the line? After months, years of flirtation, why now? Why did you break?

Instigator.

Another flash. In the backseat, you try to fuck. He says no. “I don’t think we should rush this.” His hands push you away. Your mind loops the gesture. “No.” He pushes you away. “No.”  He pushes you away. “No.” He pushes you away.

Whore. Whore. Sloppy fucking whore.

No longer a mere prod, shame envelops you and tightens on your shoulders. The grip is unbearable.

Disgusting.

“Infidelity doesn’t count if the spouse never finds out.” That was your line of the evening. “No one has to get hurt.” His wife never has to know.

You consider vomiting, but your body declines. You’re keeping the shame inside today.

Your husband is in the bathroom, and you have to get out of bed. How can you face him?

You learn to lie. You lie to save your life. You didn’t know you could.

Liar.

He emerges from the shower, and his body reminds you of the other’s – how different it was. Is. Will I see it again? Do I want to? Straight lines on him. Curves on the other. You wince at the discrepancy. You feel ill. Vomit still won’t come.

All day, you keep it inside. All week. All month. Forever.

You keep it inside because it’s the contract you signed when your lips met the other’s.

Your lips met the other’s.

You wish you could remember.