Anemic speech acts (your words bruise so easily)
by Charlotte E. Wilde
I could say I felt you slipping away again, felt my fingers losing their grip on the hazy mirage we’d built for ourselves, sigh-laced with swelling feelings that dripped like sweat from bodies. But I wont, I’ve started this habit of 64oz of truth a day, 3.5 bottles left scattered like the remains of “doctors orders” and wont-he-be-proud. I’ve started something and I move slow, but I don’t take beginnings lightly.
“Say sweet things to me.”
The words came ever easier and softer like they’d been waiting to tumble off my tongue, down your cheek into your neck. I made our bed with William James who told me that repetition makes a truth. I arranged the dishes with J. L. Austin, who whispered about the power of performative utterances until every first, second and third kiss became a theory of locutionary, illocutionary, and perlocutionary acts.
The power of suggestion. The power of words. I search the n-grams for “madness” and find only an EKG. Rate and rhythm, how easily we confuse hormones and hearts.
“This wont last,” you’d said.
Somehow I felt a comfort in that, felt beautiful in its sorry. I fell into you, lost track in soft spots and tales of adolescence where fingers stole my caution like sun on my skin. Too late I saw your “nothing ever does” was due to the kind of sweeping decision-making you drape over all aspects of your life that are disposable.
This feeling, disposable? Just like anything that can’t be chiseled into perfection and time-blocked into a Wednesday evening between 7:15 and 8.
Let us remind ourselves then how hormones and hearts are heavy things. One is replaceable but the other must be held closely out of reach for lost caution burns and scars like lessons learnt.
“This wont last,” you’d said. But it will. It will.