I have tried writing about it, and I have tried not writing about it. I have tried writing about other things—books I have read, music I have been listening to, documentaries I’ve watched—but these feel insubstantial and out of reach.
The only story I can hold onto right now is the one I’m living, and it’s the one I’d most like to let go of.
But the weight of it presses down on my shoulders, closes my throat, ruins my dreams. I alternate between sleeping all afternoon and through the night, and lying awake in bed, imagining the gore from thirteen knife wounds, the blood that must have drenched the furniture and floors. The horror on her face when she found you.
And, of course, I lie awake, too, with the memories from years ago, when we would kiss, and kiss, and kiss, our lips melting into each other, and then the cruelty, the derision, the judgment.
The photos I have of you, of us, show that we are happy, and smiling; we are young and beautiful. Beauty can be as cruel as the knife, and sometimes even crueler.
Someday, when the memory blurs and the emotions dull with time, maybe then, I can give shape to this shapeless thing, this wound in my heart.