'Through rose-coloured eyes'

My darling worships me so, that he makes a saint out of me every night. Nails to my hands, crown of roses on my head, their thorns pricking at my scalp.Cross upon my back, the size of his love. So heavy that my spine breaks, under the weight of his gaze, like a bad child, when I say the wrong thing at the wrong time, nobody’s fault but mine that I do not know any better. He tells me I don’t know any better. I shed a tear as the heavy words hit me, almost as heavy as his loving fist. He means no harm I promise. He tells me he means no harm. And when he holds me, bruises of his palm prints stay, marks on my body as the testament of his adoration, I pick up pieces off the floor, ribbons of paper, of flesh, of his love that I have no choice but to take more of.

My friends ask about the scarf at the beach, sweater in the streets at 60 degrees. ‘Isn’t it hot?’ Not as hot as the water that my darling baptised me in, the scalds still raw on my nape. And so I feed them dreams and fantasies that I’ve spun for myself, webs of lies, perfect smiles, so they don’t see the missing teeth, gums still bleeding from his weekly beat, when he isn’t him. I tell myself it isn’t him.

I go home to my mother, and she holds my hands as I cry, eyes hollow as she lets me know that true love is a knife to the throat, broken arms from your lover’s hold. That I must drown from his embrace, from his hands holding the water to my face, submerged in the heat of passion, as warm as his cigarette stubs on my raw chest. I feel my soul stir, my hope choking on the opposition that seems to rise in my throat.

And so I carry on. I carry on surviving in this war of hearts, mine barely beating. Battered, bare and bleeding, while his holds me captive as he promised he would. ‘My heart will forever hold you. I’ll never let you go’ And he fulfils his vows, just like on our wedding night, as he pins me down, and I struggle to rise, suffocate under his preying eyes. Like a caged bird, I long to be free but where do I go? All I know is my darling, who loves me. I promise he does. He promised he does. And so I let him crucify me, show me his love. His love. As morbid as it is, it is his. As am I. As I always will be. As I let myself be.

But can I? Let myself be satisfied in this half of a life, living like death’s bride, I try my best to believe in his cries of devotion, like a badly tuned violin, skin walker wearing his skin, it almost sounds like him, like my darling. My love. I pick up the pieces off the floor, of the broken vase, of my broken faith, and walk away with the broken parts of myself that I have left. Enough for me to rebuild a nest.

Not quite gold but better than a beautifully crafted excuse of a safe haven. Better than being the lamb to his slaughter, martyr to his one-man religion. Pawn to some game that he always seems to be playing. He watches me as I finally counter his move.

He tells me I don’t know any better, he means no harm, he loves me, he always does. And I hear the bark in his words, feel the bite in my soul. How long has this been going on?

I tell myself this is it.

This is it…

Written by Priscilla Mathias Mbwambo