User Review( votes)
written by: Joan Leotta
Whenever I object to something or start to cry, you say I’m wound one turn too tight.
Then the volume of our conversation rises until it is loud enough to become a true fight. You always win. You continue the argument, get even louder, use words as weapons.
I always apologize, my humble words become a softening blanket on your flames of ire. My own feelings are suppressed, suffocated by tears. I become powerless to move, to think about moving. One morning, I looked in the mirror and saw your hand-wound tightly around my waist—in a seeming embrace, making up for the anger. My ribs had no room to give my lungs space to breathe.
Tomorrow, as soon as you leave, I plan to go so far that your hands can no longer grip me. Then I will be free. And looser. No longer wound too tight.