Acts of Desperation

by Megan Nolan

Being in love was like that to me, a shield, a higher purpose, a promise to something outside of yourself.

Why do you do it? Because I like to. Meaning, not so much that I take pleasure in it, but: I choose it.

There is no truce to be made with my body; if I make one, I know it will only be negated by a new enemy in time. What is the point?

I came from her, she made this body-thing I hate and love so much. I resent her for producing it; I’m mortified I have made such poor use of it. How dare you? I want to scream at her, on the one hand; I love you so much! I’m sorry, on the other.

I knew, of course, that they would never know that I was not eating, and even if they did, they would not know it was they who had caused it.

How lucky I have been that so much of my pain is from fearing the loss of what I already have, instead of suffering the absence entirely,

Even that, I supposed, had been a lie – I hadn’t wanted him to trust people, I’d wanted him to trust me, only me. I wanted to be the one who could shatter his outside and get to the good parts, wanted to be the saint who made him see it wasn’t all women who were sluts and liars; or maybe to make him see that it was all of them, except for me, only me, and I was the only one he needed.

I didn’t deserve love but I needed it.