Car-Mine, All Mine

He smiles when I cry. A soft one, before he embraces me. 

Like he just needed to observe the way the emotion 

changes my features. 

Soak up the hopelessness shimmering in my eyes 

and grab me just before 

I can suffocate on my own breathless oxygen. 


He likes to feel like he is saving me. 


Sometimes he says something terrible 

just to watch me crumble 

and then

be the one to pick me up.


His vocabulary consists of:

“Why do you always pick a fight” ’s

and

“You never believe me anymore, Carmine” ’s


He tells me that I look beautiful when I cry,

and I realize that he thinks this makes up for it. 

That he thinks I want to feel beautiful as I fall apart. 

He's a romantic and a manipulator. 

I let him be both.

Mostly because I don’t know how to play victim as well 

as he does. 


“Do you even notice all the things I do for you?”


He threatens to leave me. 

I break down and cry. 

“Oh Car-Mine, you’re all mine,” he soothes

in the aftermath. 

When he says this, I think I will marry him. 

My nickname would feel wrong on anyone 

else’s lips.


When he sleeps 

I cut strands of his hair 

and brew potions in his toilet. 

I whisper words I don’t understand 

and then throw them up. 

Dark magic is hard on the tongue. 

He wakes up and rubs my back as I hurl. 

I feel guilty for the things I want to do to him. 

He deserves it. 

I’ll feel sick for a while. 


He sings songs I pretend are about me. 

He says he wants to have karaoke 

at his wedding. 

I imagine another girl in a white dress, 

listening and loving him more than I do. 


He says I’m the reason he missed the exit. 

He swerves in between lanes. 

A car honks.

He asks if I’m trying to kill him. 

My hands aren’t the ones on the wheel. 

He calls me exhausting at the red light. 

I cry in the passenger seat. 

“At least you’re pretty when you cry.”

He moves to wipe a tear. 

Yes, I think.

At least there’s that. 


I brew potions in the sink while he sleeps. 

I whisper words I don't understand.

I choke on my bile. 

He gets up and rubs my back while I hurl. 

I feel less guilty for the things I want to do to him. 

He deserves it. 

I’ll feel sick for a while. 


I am angry. 

He is good with words. 

Mine don’t come out. 

I want to look as ugly as I feel. I want him to see the turmoil of my emotions and feel terrified. 

I know I’m not because he pushes the hair stuck to my cheek away with his thumb. 

It dries and hardens like salt by the time he’s finished fucking his excuses. 

Then, I wash it down the drain.


I brew potions in the tub. 

I whisper words I don’t understand. 

I keep the dark magic in my throat, 

keep it coating my tongue. 

I swallow. 

I don’t feel guilty for all the things I want to do to him. 

I drink the potions. 

They taste of rage.

My face changes. 

I look as ugly as I feel. 

He screams. 

He deserves it. 

Do you understand now? All the ways in which I can hurt you too?

He cries. 

I smile and tell him 

he looks beautiful. 

The face I’m wearing is his.


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