You are beautiful : A bedtime story

Your breath reeks of tortillas and vodka.

But 15 minutes ago we had garlic bread in our old dining room. Yet, you claimed to be hungry because on our bed is where your ravenous dessert lay. I close my eyes as a million thoughts march across my scarred mind.

What were the tortillas about? Another fancy dinner date down the 6th street café?

If so, did you get her flowers from my favorite florist? Also, the stench of vodka? I regretfully think it’s the intoxication she poured on you. But you forgot to wash it before visiting the attic between your wife’s legs. Oh, she must be irresistible!

/ sigh /

10 minutes elapse. The clock strikes 1A.M.I wish I could add the seconds too. For I am a woman who counts the accurate hours of secret tantrums.

/ Dead night and an ongoing hunt in the 2nd room of a city flat /

Your hands run down my waist, my heart gets stuck in my dry throat, my blood chants your name in revolt, my soul begs me to shove you without hesitating, my brain says,

 “You are nothing but a bed for his mouth.”

But I lay as still as a lifeless prey, while you fulfill your intense craving like the rainbow colored butterflies that suck nectar from the roses on our terrace. Nonetheless, I am not the only beholder of your ‘nectar wine cup’, for I sleep among a garland.

I untie the ropes that shut my eyes.

What is beautiful in me? I want to know. I search for answers in all your warmth and touch.

Blank. 

Just like unanswered questions on a white sheet.

       Photo by Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash

Alas! My inner void amplifies on its own arriving at the chambers of my scars. I want you to see them, the old and the new, breathing frantically under my skin, as I rip myself open so that I’m bleeding before you. But your eyes don’t see the scars that adorn me. Your eyes cannot see; for the eyes speak what the heart speaks. Rhetorically,  your heart speaks nothing but melodious names that are not mine.

My thoughts visit faraway lands where pure love stories originated and across boundaries. The ancient, poignant narrative of ‘Layla and Majnun,’ which I have memorized.

I reminisce Layla’s words as she whispered to the winds of 7th century, when Harun The Emperor told her,

“Oh, but you are just an ordinary woman. What is so special about your beauty?”

Clearly astounded as to how Majnun could madly fall in love with a woman with subtle features.

“You have to look at me through Majnun’s eyes.”

Her words were a whisper but as loud as the echo of a ferocious lion’s roar. It echoed past hills where she used to meet Majnun, her altruistic lover, on silent nights. But as for your sweet words, my ears hear them but my heart doesn’t. They fade imperceptibly to the thin air like wisp of cigar smoke.

You are the sinner who whispers lies to my ears every night. You are the fake poet who spills meaningless words and makes it sound true. You are an everyday customer who is served without being charged a penny. You are a husband who has an unhappy wife.

You see, you are not my Majnun and I am not your Layla.

1.05.A.M

You are exhausted. So am I. But you will be okay by morning and I will never be. Next time please don’t call me beautiful. You haven’t yet perceived its pure meaning.

But I care for the sublime importance of words, for they are what I hide.

It’s my treasure that haunts me mercilessly every day and night.

By: Maryam Mimraz