D

I prayed for this.

An answer, a resolution, an ending.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

In fact it aches in valleys I didn’t know existed.

I peak at anger, and fall down in despair on the constant verge of tears.

On the plateaus of calm, I am ok. I have to remind myself that the plateaus exist.

I feel guilty when something makes me smile or laugh, as if I should remain always draped in the shroud of depression.

This hurt has weight.

A weight that shifts, grows, diminishes, and crushes over the course of a day.


He sees nothing, or at least he says nothing about witnessing his lover waste away.

He tries to hold me tighter and I feel myself shrink even further into myself. Ball myself up into the smallest, tightest corner, and pray to disappear.

This is not love. This is possession disguised as love. 


--

Dr. Aisha Z. Cort is a full-time lecturer at Howard University, where she teaches Spanish grammar and culture and Afro Cuban film and literature. As an Afro Cuban Bostonian who currently resides in Washington, D.C., she has a vested interest in transnational culture and art as well as travel and entrepreneurship.


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