PUNK PROSE: The Body Keeps a Different Calendar By Ann Fulleros
The body is a bad liar. Mine still remembers him in places I don't. A shoulder waiting for a hand that isn't coming. A mouth that learned someone's name before it learned how to say no. Knees that hit the floor for God long before they understood they could also hit the pavement and keep walking. People say time heals. Time is a fucking calendar. The body doesn't care. The body keeps its own dates. May. The month my skin became evidence. The month I learned that a person can leave you before they leave the room. That goodbye can happen in secret. That sometimes you are the last person to receive the news about your own life. For a while, I thought I was supposed to forgive him because forgiveness makes better literature. I tried. I couldn't. So I forgave myself instead. For staying. For believing. For not knowing. For knowing something was wrong and calling it anxiety because that was easier than calling it betrayal. Last night, I found an old shirt in the back of m...