I hold the term "our property" loosely. It was always yours. The same with everything else, your thumb pressed firmly in the center of my back. Pressure on the heart makes it hurt to beat, but beat it does. And beat it will.
(more) I look out the kitchen window and watch the earthmovers tear large chunks of bedrock and gray clay out of the ground. Horses grazed there only two months ago.
This was going to be our haven. Our place away from the stress of the city. You said open skies and open fields calmed you. Nothing calms you, not really.
"What now?" I wonder.
Back to the alcohol, the lies, the tight-mouthed words when the strip mall goes up and the investors come pounding on our door ordering us to move. The carpet will wear thin with the all night pacing when street traffic hums like a fluorescent and the stink of your stubborn sweat will stain the sheets.
I watch the veins of your hands stand blue beneath your skin, always clutching, clutching, clutching. When will you learn that not everything is yours?(less)