Creative Writing

Defenestration: creative writing

I thought the door was open and the window shut – a trick of the light, perhaps. I heard the former slam as you pushed me out the latter. As I fell I looked up into your face. You were pressing your forefinger into the space between your eyebrows. Your thumb was on your lip. I’ve lain for a while on this damp ground. The cold has seeped into my limbs and I am numb. I still do not remember landing. I sit and pick the harsh shards of glass from my flesh. They are a mountain beside me, and my skin itches from the scabbing wounds.

I haul myself up, dragging my broken body through the day. This is a new normality, a tiptoe where there used to be a confident tread: your footprints are everywhere and I am swaying between the cracks. Friends are tightrope artists on their lines, each slow step fusing bones. Your footprints shallow, and my bruises yellow.

By the time I crawl into bed my exterior is fresh, fixed, new. My organs are still displaced – my stomach sits too low in my torso and my heart skitters in my throat. There is an uncomfortable hole where my diaphragm should be. I hope the night will heal my pain.

The next morning I wake up falling.



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