I slipped the piece of reflective glass into my upper arm, right under the skin.
It came from your grandmother’s antique dresser. I’d joked about burning the dark mahogany monstrosity. You insisted it had to move in with you.
You didn’t hand the glass to me after a fight or bitter sigh. It came with a simple question after sex. “Why did you sleep with me that first night?”
I sat up, reaching for the hunter-green sheets at the end of the bed. The ceiling fan cooled and dried my sweat, leaving a chill against my stomach. “I wanted sex.”
You scratched your upper arm. “Hm.”
I loved you.
That love grew from our evenings after work, when we decided cooking would be our thing, but all we did was make messes for the morning. You dropped kisses on my shoulder each time you passed, and it filled my heart. I want to keep you for the way you looked at me naked, for the way you touched me with reference, but that first night, you were measured in ifs. If you would hurt me when I got you alone. If you would be a decent enough lover to give and take. If you would leave without a fuss. If I would have to kick you out in the morning.
I gathered you knew you were a lucky catch, rather than a shining fish.
After I offered my simple truth you pulled the shard of glass out, holding it before me. It shone silver against the streetlight that poured in from the blinds.
“What is it?” I asked.
You wanted more, not just my heart but my reason, my soul. I wanted those for myself.
You held the glass out to me. I turned it over and over in my hand as if trying out a riddle. I almost asked why you would give me a piece of shattered mirror, but knew better.
You were gone from the room when I looked up.
I get the next glass shard the first day that neither of us texted each other at work.
I opened my phone screen to send a mid-morning greeting when Anna placed two folders full of paperwork on my desk. I groaned, setting the phone down. I could have told her to wait as we both moaned over the increased workload, but the truth—I didn’t think about how not hearing from me might hurt you.
I failed you, and that failing lead to a palm-sized piece of broken glass. You dropped it in my lap as I scanned for something to watch on television, tired and overworked.
The piece of glass, once clear was covered in soil, as if you’d dug it out of the backyard. I opened my mouth to ask where you got it, but I heard the bathroom door close, water started to run. I lifted my shirt and slipped it under the skin of my stomach.
Gifts of glass came from your disappointment and my carelessness. You could call me a bitch and useless. It would do nothing. If jewels instead of slander fell from your lips, you would be rich.
To fight and cut deep, you have to have cared. I never minded our fights.
When you came home, closing the front door a little too loud, and I heard the plop of one shoe as you let it tumble to the floor—I knew your mood was sour. You huffed as you walked into the kitchen without saying hello.
I couldn’t bring myself to get off the couch. This, I know, was another failing.
“What’s wrong?” I called.
If I really cared, I’d said, “Don’t bring that shit home. If work is a problem, I’ll listen, but don’t put all that anger on me.”
When you didn’t call me a bitch under your breath, after seeing that I didn’t take the trash out, you set a piece of brown glass on my knee. It was smaller than the others, sharper.
A gift for not getting up, for not caring enough.
It looked like glass from the beer bottle you held. Did you shatter it with a hammer and waited to bring it to me?
Our eyes never met.
I could’ve said, “Maybe we should go to therapy.” Or “Maybe we should go on vacation.”
Neither would’ve worked and you walked away, leaving me to add the glass under my skin.
You changed clothes, showered, or perhaps you started to make dinner for yourself. I slipped the brown glass into my left foot.
They lived inside of me.
Like you used to.
Three pieces turned into four, five, fifteen, twenty-five. The number of days between each faded as if the good days were nonexistent.
Colored sea-glass waited for me on the bedside table next to my glass of water. When I grabbed my keys, I found another. I was used to shining glass rather than the warmth of your hand or the taste of salty sweat on your neck. Few words passed the boundary of our lips. Was the guilt at my feet?
Yours?
I reached for you in the night and you rolled on top of me. You shuddered against me and went stiff. Your hand traced the sharp lines of glass under my skin.
“Yes,” I wanted to whisper, but could never dare.
You rolled off and sat. Your back curved in shadow before you left our bed for the oblivion of television.
You left behind the last piece of glass.
The last piece fit into my cheek.
I got into the shower as glass slid against glass. Each step ripped and tore my skin apart. It fell to the ground in threads and plops onto the light blue tile. Freckled skin, scars, all of it came off. Underneath was a shining, hard woman, wet with blood. I became reflections in the light and nothing in the dark.
I washed away the blood left over from my skin. I could only tell that the water was warm because steam rose in the air. Wet, hot, cold, all of those things were for women who could feel.
I became the perfect silhouette of a woman.
I would shine for you and never feel you, again.
Content Warnings: emotional abuse, self-harm