Day 5
Grieving someone who’s right next to you is its own brand of hell. The thought of solitude post-divorce haunts me. Though would it really be worse than the emotional abyss I'm sharing space with right now?
There’s a chasm between us that I feel would be easier to grasp with actual physical space. As he and his newfound flame frolic in their own little wonderland, I'm here, having myself a thrilling day folding laundry in the living room.
A Polaroid emerges from a pocket – him and her, grinning like the world's their oyster. A year ago today, I was like this overeager kid in a candy store, excitedly asking if we could dance with the flames of polyamory. I had no clue it would torch everything to the ground. The urge to hex their unity flits across my thoughts. So, down the rabbit hole of the deep dark web, I go, stumbling upon spells spiked with vengeance.
To conjure up a basic breakup spell, no fancy potions or cosmic know-how required.
Tools Needed:
1. a picture of the couple
2. a handful of petals
3. one black candle
4. a piece of their clothing.
What if it wasn’t polyamory itself that cursed the marriage? Throughout our decade together, I sought refuge in male gazes, in the deceptive comfort of food, the oblivion that drugs brought, the solace in the arms of drink. Anything to reroute my dopamine, to short-circuit this ache that only grew. This trauma, this phantom that followed me-or better yet, my inability to stave off its corrosive touch on my partner, it's what dealt the fatal blow.
Instructions:
Cut out a slice from each piece of clothing, plop them on either side of the sizzling black candle.
I bought him a Monstera this year, a silent petitioner for the resurrection of our union. It now bows its head in tandem with my other dying plants like a botanical mirror to our withering bond.
Pop their picture right in the center.
Light up flower petals and use the ash to smudge the rival’s face.
Our marriage, once a tailored convenience, now lies threadbare, much like the faded sketches on the mugs that portray our days alongside our late fur family. He’s faded too, changed- the claw marks that scar his skin like cryptic hieroglyphs. His hair, now an audacious electric blue, stands as a neon sign shouting, "Take note, I’ve shed my old skin."
I’ve shed skin as well. But here I am, all exposed and vulnerable, like a nerve laid bare. To tackle the pain, I'm dishing out jokes. There are little morsels of truth in my humor: tattoos as a ticket to post-divorce liberation. The tattoos resemble rebellion and rebirth. Perhaps a shield against the world, perhaps a metamorphosis into my own person.
Let the photo burst into bits. Lay those bits on a plate. Trim some fabric scraps, and add them to the mix.
The cloak of a lover's shadow, once my armor, now feels like a shroud suffocating my growth. Yet, as the debris of my old self settles, I'm faced with the task of reassembly. And so, into his room I step. The crumpled picture was my offering, “Found this in the laundry, don’t lose it.”.
