You should pay attention more.
Because if you did, you’d notice what’s happening here.
You’d see how my skin crawls when you touch me. I bet you haven’t noticed my mm-hmm’s when you’re busy fabricating a lie. I’m agreeing with you. Right. I get insulted that your lies are so blatant. You don’t lie well. You don’t give me your best lies. Don’t I deserve your best lies, at least? You insult my intelligence.
You’d see how my tongue folds when you kiss me. No part of my mouth wants you in it. You don’t notice that you kiss a dry mouth. My saliva runs for dear life. Wants no mingling with your cheating, contaminated saliva. My lips want no part of your marauding lips.
You should pay attention to my hips when you put your hands on them the next time. You should listen to the cry they let out when you bang them against your hardness. You should see how they sway away from you.
My breasts, they hate you. So much so that they threaten to leave my chest every time you touch them. They cry out in pain every time you touch them. Your caress has turned into painful pinches. What. The. Fuck.
I touch you to push you away. It’s not my fault that you mistake it for a caress. You don’t pay attention. You’re going through the motions with my body. I’m here. You’re here. What is expected of you, you do. You think if you don’t stop touching me, I will not notice that you’re busy touching others. So you go through the motions. So you pay no attention.
If you paid attention, you’d notice how my head aches at the thought of having sex with you. So when I say I have a headache, I do indeed have a headache.
You don’t notice that you’re losing me. You don’t notice that I’d be okay if you didn’t bother to touch me at all.
You don’t notice how weak you have become.
But lying is exhausting, isn’t it? It drains the energy from you?
Lying kills you softly?
So come home whenever you like. Skip some nights if you wish. Be with her. With them. With me. Exhaust yourself. Lose me.
I’m pretty losable if you give me a chance.
I don’t call you to ask where you are at midnight. You’re in her bed. Fucking the life out of her. I don’t go through your trouser pockets to look for receipts. Why would I when I know you went to dinner together, you ate some fucking fish and Ugali, accompanied by stupid sukuma wiki and kachumbari, and the bill came to 1,350? Why exactly would I check your pockets? I wouldn’t even dare check your shirt collar for lipstick, dude. Claudette wears maroon lipstick. Selina wears red lipstick. And the fucking weirdo, what’s her name? Sue? Brigitte? Flo? That one, she wears black lipstick. I cringe to imagine what this one does to you in bed. I really don’t need to check your shirt for nothing. Nor your phone. I mean, the activity in your WhatsApp puts the porn industry to shame. Especially since Claudette finally succumbed to your pleas for nudes. She’s become quite comfortable in her poses too, this one.
I just wish that you’d keep your hands to yourself when you come home to me. Or stay with them for a while. Or until you’re done with them. A year. Two years. Seven years. Forever.
Forever is good too.
And you don’t notice how persistent your cough has become.
Because when I try to leave you, it drains me. I have no energy for the arguments that sprout up when I ask to be lost by you. The apologies – I don’t want those! The tears – I don’t care about your feelings, so why should I care about your tears! The family interventions – I’ve had enough of these people with their “Ndoa ni kuvumiliana” gospel!
Why is it so hard for you to lose me.
Why is no one out there loving you enough to allow you to let go of me? All these girls and none have motivated you to leave me alone?
That’s all I want. To be left alone. To be broken up with. To be heartbroken in peace, if there’s such a thing. To be rid of you. Is that so much to ask?
You don’t notice how lean your body is underneath those pyjamas.
You touch my back as you come to bed and it screams at you to get the fuck away from me. But that goes unnoticed by you. You’re busy putting on charades. Spending some nights at home so that I think we still have a marriage. Touching me and feigning desire so that I think my headache is starving you of sex. Eating the food I cook so that I think you’re not catching dinners and home-cooked meals anywhere else.
Because you kept eating my food.
You cough some more.
Because you refused to lose me.
You sit up and cough again and again, holding onto your painful chest.
Because you kept breaking my heart and eating my food.
You can’t breathe.
Because you couldn’t let me go.
Because I couldn’t live like this anymore.
Because you exhausted me.
Because you drained the life out of me.
You killed me and I reacted in kind.
You finally see the blood oozing from your nose and mouth.
Your eyes grow wide as you look at me.
You try to breathe.
A few more minutes, babe.
A few more minutes and you’ll lose me for good.