The Things He Does That Have No Words by Whitney Schmidt

Photo by Mario Azzi on Unsplash

Before

​He steals your breath sometimes. The story you tell is a fine line passed from his lips and tongue as he holds you down. You memorize him quickly; this will be on the test. You are girlfriend: the only one who understands him. Once, he punches the door when you shut it so you can pee and cry. Rainbow flowers bloom on your neck your arms your breasts your inner thighs, but he kisses the flowers away with gentle tears. You know the pressure of his forehead on your belly, his arms tight around your waist as he kneels and apologizes and tells you things. His devotion is an incandescent bulb always on and radiant with heat. You no longer feel your hands, so you wouldn't know if this is love or arson.

During
 
You are a basement with a long blue couch and no windows. You are heartbeat, a thunderous drum. You are shallow breath and stiff muscles. A blue couch cushion pressed down and down. His hands and his knees. You are wait. You are stop. You are your words lost in his mouth—breathed in, chewed up, swallowed down. You are his fingers. You are wait. You are stop. You are the sound of him. You are red light behind your eyes. You are it. You are tag you’re it. You are full of worms and dirt and him. You are nothing. You are a percussion instrument. Dark light bulbs. A ceiling fan with still blades. You are white noise. You are his toothy smile. You are the wallpaper train circling the crown molding. A boxcar with open doors and no cargo.

After

Days later you take your first shower, if standing still under hot water counts as trying. You tilt your head so the stream runs into your ears and you hear only breath and heartbeat. You do not wash yourself: he stole your hands: now every touch is his. You set the tap as hot as you can stand and once the heat stops hurting you turn it up again and again and when you can't make it any hotter, you make it icy cold. Repeat until you feel nothing not even the pulse of him or the water beating your skin. You wish you could do something about the him on the inside.

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Whitney Schmidt is a teacher, writer, and amateur lepidopterist with a passion for poetry, prose, and pollinators. She founded the first student-led secondary school Writing Center in Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Wild Roof Journal, Mantis, South Florida Poetry Journal, and The Banyan Review, among others. She lives near Tulsa with her husband, two pit-mix rescue pups, and various moth and butterfly guests.