By Mariyah N. Johnson

When I walked into the house, I prayed to catch him whispering. It’s been 3 weeks, and I could smell the dishonesty on his breath with every kiss that I hoped would only be mine. When I walked into the house, I wondered if he was there with me or with someone else. Although he was by himself, was he with anyone else?

When I smiled in his face, he wondered if I was ok. Was it? Or was the importance of “i” too small for him to realize the problem. Was I simply losing control of my husband? Or was he just figuring shit out? I pondered on the thought for months, questioning the importance of “i” to myself. 

When he walked into my room that night, and said “we should get a divorce,” I no longer questioned the faith of my heart or the condition of my smile. I no longer retaliated on the response of my prayers and the weakening of my head. I simply sat in silence. In listening, in mourning. 

When I screamed in his face, the redness of my skin seeped in for weeks. My head no longer was a part of me, instead it was the one in mourning and in listening. When I screamed in his face, I ran over his heart with huge ass tires, hoping that the marks left an imprint. Hoping that the life that he promised me was there to haunt him until he felt the need to get rid of himself. 

When I let go, I ran. I ran like I never ran before because the thought of the wind suffocating me once more like it flooded my brain. So I ran until the water was drained and I was in control of the wind. Until I was tired of sickness and health. Until the words, till death do us part didn’t linger on my tongue like curse words in church. Until it was over.