Infertile

Your body doesn't know mine tonight.

Not even by the stench of my armpits as I stretch out my hand across you. Not by my touch either. I have become unfamiliar to your stubble. Or perhaps, too familiar.

My lips are against yours in sleep. You lie perfectly unperturbed. And something in our intimacy lies changed forever. It has covered itself up in shame.

Two hours ago, you said ‘Later’, turned your back to me and slept. I feel like a whore now. Sitting up, naked and waiting. Naked, like leaves with their veins bleeding in the rain.

I feel a little debased. For I know, when you will finally feel like reaching up to me, I will come to you. Like an instinct. No questions asked. Gasp, as you cup my breasts. Moan, as your hand rides up my thigh. Shudder, as you come inside me. And then, you will forget to ask. If I came.

And then, you will shrink away from me. Like I am something to be shrunk away from. Like you alone want to have every bit of the peace we just created together. As if my body against yours will violate it. As if your want is a need. As if my want is just a want.

Perhaps you are simply tired. Perhaps you feel better this way. But when you turn your back to me, untangling our limbs, I feel abandoned. A little given up on. As if I have no business being there. And the room smells like offal.

I feel dejected in my own body. My nudity stings me.

I feel frigid. I feel infertile. As I spend the rest of night watching the games an empty room and the shadows play.

The curtain has closed on this monologue.