Reckless Geography

The house isn’t home,

just a morgue with walls,

painted in the shade of my own denial.

This bed was a sanctuary once,

but now it reeks of betrayal,

of bodies that aren’t mine,

of moans that aren’t for me.

One night,

I woke to his arms around someone else,

their bodies tangled in the sheets

I paid for.

They were naked,

their skin pressed together like fucking poetry.

And me?

I was the punctuation at the end of a sentence

nobody cared to finish.

I sobbed into the dark—

silent, shaking,

because I didn’t want them to hear me break.

But the worst wasn’t that night.

The worst came before Christmas,

when he asked his boyfriend,

“If I wasn’t with my husband anymore,

would you stay with me?”

I told him to say it,

hoping—praying—

he wouldn’t.

But he did.

The words slipped out like a knife.

And there it was,

the final tear in the fabric of fifteen years.

He called me abusive.

“You’re too much to handle,” he said.

But I wasn’t the one

fucking someone else while my husband slept.

I wasn’t the one who left him in the hospital

with cancer,

or when he swallowed pills and begged for the end.

That was him.

That was them.

The day I found out I had cancer,

he stayed downstairs,

watching anime with the boy he said didn’t mean a thing.

They laughed while my chest caved in.

The house was filled with their joy,

their fucking joy,

while I stared at the ceiling,

breathing in the silence

like poison.

“Come on,” he said.

“You can fuck me whenever you want.”

As if his body could fix the ruin.

As if his offer wasn’t the cheapest trick

I’d ever seen.

I told him,

“I don’t want your pity.

I want you to look me in the eye

and tell me you still love me.”

He couldn’t.

Now, I drink again.

Not to drown, but to float—

to drift far enough away from him,

from them,

from the memory of his mouth

around someone else’s cock.

I’m on PrEP,

shaved bare like a sacrifice,

ready to fuck my way through this pain.

Let me swallow the bitterness

and replace it with something sweeter—

the slick slide of strangers,

the stretch of skin against mine,

the relief of forgetting.

But Santiago—

he was different.

The first time we met,

I fucked him on the hood of my car

in the mall parking lot.

He climbed out, naked as sin,

and let me take him right there,

his ass pressed against cold metal.

We didn’t care if anyone saw.

Later,

we stripped in the backseat,

ran naked through a field,

and fucked for hours on a playground.

We posted the proof online,

because who gives a fuck

about shame when you’re on fire?

Santiago didn’t just fuck me—

he mirrored me.

Every reckless impulse,

every craving for life,

he lived them the way I used to.

He laughed with his whole body,

told stories with his hands,

and kissed like he was pulling pieces of my soul

to keep for himself.

I loved him,

or maybe I loved the way he made me forget

who I’d become.

Either way,

he reminded me

there was still a version of me

worth wanting.

But I let him go.

I pushed him away,

thinking maybe—just maybe—

my husband would notice.

That he’d see what I was willing to give up.

I was so fucking wrong.

Now Santiago’s gone,

and I miss him like I miss the man

I used to be.

My friends say I’ll be fine.

They hate him too—

him and his boyfriend,

the boy who walks into my house

and tells me it’s dirty.

The boy who says,

“I don’t care if they call me a homewrecker,”

and then wrecks everything anyway.

Fuck him.

Fuck them both.

But there are others,

friends who don’t see it the same way.

“You’re bipolar,” they say,

as if that explains the cheating.

“Maybe he lashed out because of you.”

But when I ask,

“Would it be okay if your husband

sucked someone else’s cock

because you were raped?”

They go silent.

Fuck them too.

The house is haunted.

Every room whispers,

“You weren’t enough.”

The kitchen smells like the coffee he made for him.

It tastes like bitterness now.

The guest room feels like a stage

where their clothes hit the floor,

and the bed is a fucking crime scene.

I breathe it all in,

and it chokes me.

The divorce papers sit on the counter,

a promise of freedom

I can’t touch yet.

I still live with him,

the man I despise,

in a house where every shadow

has his name.

I can’t tell some friends where I live.

They’d call me a hypocrite

for hating the open relationship

I never wanted.

“You should have let him,” they’d say,

as if his infidelity was my fucking fault.

And his family?

They hated me for fifteen years,

and now they’d want alimony.

Let them rot in their ignorance

But one day—

I’ll pack my things,

leave this house,

and find a place where the walls

don’t whisper his name.

I’ll fuck without guilt.

Drink without shame.

Dance until the weight lifts from my chest.

I’ll wake up to sunlight,

warm on my skin,

soft as forgiveness.

I’ll open the windows,

let the breeze wash out the ghosts,

and feel the air, clean and light.

Maybe I’ll meet someone,

someone who doesn’t need a label

but knows how to touch me

like I matter.

We’ll fuck,

watch movies on the couch,

and wake up in a bed

that doesn’t hold memories of betrayal.

And maybe—just maybe—

I’ll find myself again,

the me I lost

when he fell for someone else.

One day,

the mirrors will stop lying.

The scars will fade.

And when I look out the window,

I’ll see sunlight

instead of shadows.