Ariana Harwicz: Die, My Love

A bit later I see him go outside. He says he needs to piss, that he doesn't know how anyone can piss inside. He's addicted to the outdoors. I've no clue what he thinks is so bloody special about the sky. He likes it when it's blue and he's even happier when there aren't any clouds. Personally, I don't give a damn if I'm under the open sky or shut up in a trunk.


My baby finally empties my right tit and then my left one. My husband is watching cartoons, he does this to switch off.

So many healthy and beautiful women in the area, and he ended up falling for me. A nutcase. A foreigner. Someone beyond repair. Muggy out today, isn’t it? Seems it’ll last a while, he says. I take long swigs from the bottle, breathing through my nose and wishing, quite simply, that I were dead.


I always toy with the idea of going right through the glass and cutting every inch of my body, always aiming to pass through my own shadow.


I hope the first word my son says is a beautiful one. That matters more to me than his health insurance. And if it isn’t, I’d rather he didn’t speak at all. I want him to say magnolia, to say compassion, not Mum or Dad, not water. I want him to say dalliance.


We barely glanced at each other before going our separate ways