Status: Comment and Recommend!!
Sugar and Posion
1/1
The difference between the sun and the moon is the questions.
The moon is a sixteen-year-old girl in a stained white t-shirt in the back of the room, frantically taking notes and waiting until the end of class to ask for confirmation. She asks if her assumptions are correct, she asks in privacy, she asks with a shy tongue.
The sun is 5’10 with stilettos and skinny jeans and a ruby red leather jacket that matches her plump lips. Her mouth never stops, never forgets to ask the question: why? She never stops asking. Never stops questioning. Never waits until the end.
When we met, I had blue hair and always wore makeup, even to bed. I could throw back shots of Jack faster than any of his friends could. I wore tight jeans and push up bras and we had sex on the beach or in the car or in the public restroom at the Dairy Queen. I was the sun and I had no intention of ever burning out.
Three years later we got married. I didn’t fall in love, but my mom was happy. My dress was white and my hair was black and there were silver sparkles everywhere. I was a princess of the moon. I didn’t ask questions. For the sake of my mother’s sanity, I was poise. I was behaved. I think that that was the worst night of my life.
I think we had sex at a hotel, I can’t remember. I had gotten too wine-drunk and just remember watching Wheel of Fortune and wondering when the decision had been made that I was no longer allowed to be the sun. We had planned to go to the Bahamas but never made it there. He got sick on the plane and canceled the whole thing. I would rather have gone alone as opposed to staying at home with him, but I think he thought I wouldn’t have come back. He’s probably right about that.
He never let me work. I loved writing, I loved people, I loved art. To him, it was all a waste of time, and he never let me do any of the things I loved . After a few years, he told me to stop seeing my mother because she was too religious, too irrational.
We’ve been married for 13 years now, and sometimes he’ll drink a little too much and we’ll fuck even though I wish we wouldn’t. We don’t talk about it when he’s sober. We don’t talk at all anymore.
I was tired of being the moon. Being the sun was easy, my heart was warm, my soul was bright. But I was not. I was as cold as the waves that controlled me. I was a ghost in a hollow shell of what I used to be.
But as tamed as I may be, there is always a fever running through my bones. And I am tired of concealing myself in the dark. The moon just isn’t bright enough for me anymore, and neither is he.
I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I had had a bit too much dinner, but when I stared into the full-length mirror in the bathroom, I looked like the sun again. I looked warm. I looked beautiful. I looked dangerous.
I vaguely remember finding the scissors in the kitchen and cutting my long, dull, brown hair off. It’s choppy now, shorter than it had ever been before. Short enough now that he couldn’t use it to silence my tongue.
My curvaceous body was covered in an incredibly fitting red dress, something I haven’t worn since before I was the moon. Strappy black heels adorned my feet, and heavy eyeliner and lipstick were on my face. I felt good, I felt warm. I felt like the sun.
I waited for him to come home from work with a knife in my hand. On a normal day, I would be setting dinner out on the table. But the sun doesn’t cater to anyone besides herself.
I don’t remember dolling myself up, I don’t remember doing my makeup or digging through the boxes in the back of the closet to find my dress. But I remember the sound of my husband screaming when I drove the steak knife he uses for dinner every night into his chest repeatedly until he stopped moving. I remember the pools of blood around him, around me. I remember feeling freed. I remember every second.
For the first time in 13 years, not a single cell in my body was afraid.
There was still blood on my hands when I removed the credit card from his wallet and slipped it into my push up bra.
He was dead. And I - I was alive. I was the sun. And the sun bows for no one.
The moon is a sixteen-year-old girl in a stained white t-shirt in the back of the room, frantically taking notes and waiting until the end of class to ask for confirmation. She asks if her assumptions are correct, she asks in privacy, she asks with a shy tongue.
The sun is 5’10 with stilettos and skinny jeans and a ruby red leather jacket that matches her plump lips. Her mouth never stops, never forgets to ask the question: why? She never stops asking. Never stops questioning. Never waits until the end.
When we met, I had blue hair and always wore makeup, even to bed. I could throw back shots of Jack faster than any of his friends could. I wore tight jeans and push up bras and we had sex on the beach or in the car or in the public restroom at the Dairy Queen. I was the sun and I had no intention of ever burning out.
Three years later we got married. I didn’t fall in love, but my mom was happy. My dress was white and my hair was black and there were silver sparkles everywhere. I was a princess of the moon. I didn’t ask questions. For the sake of my mother’s sanity, I was poise. I was behaved. I think that that was the worst night of my life.
I think we had sex at a hotel, I can’t remember. I had gotten too wine-drunk and just remember watching Wheel of Fortune and wondering when the decision had been made that I was no longer allowed to be the sun. We had planned to go to the Bahamas but never made it there. He got sick on the plane and canceled the whole thing. I would rather have gone alone as opposed to staying at home with him, but I think he thought I wouldn’t have come back. He’s probably right about that.
He never let me work. I loved writing, I loved people, I loved art. To him, it was all a waste of time, and he never let me do any of the things I loved . After a few years, he told me to stop seeing my mother because she was too religious, too irrational.
We’ve been married for 13 years now, and sometimes he’ll drink a little too much and we’ll fuck even though I wish we wouldn’t. We don’t talk about it when he’s sober. We don’t talk at all anymore.
I was tired of being the moon. Being the sun was easy, my heart was warm, my soul was bright. But I was not. I was as cold as the waves that controlled me. I was a ghost in a hollow shell of what I used to be.
But as tamed as I may be, there is always a fever running through my bones. And I am tired of concealing myself in the dark. The moon just isn’t bright enough for me anymore, and neither is he.
I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I had had a bit too much dinner, but when I stared into the full-length mirror in the bathroom, I looked like the sun again. I looked warm. I looked beautiful. I looked dangerous.
I vaguely remember finding the scissors in the kitchen and cutting my long, dull, brown hair off. It’s choppy now, shorter than it had ever been before. Short enough now that he couldn’t use it to silence my tongue.
My curvaceous body was covered in an incredibly fitting red dress, something I haven’t worn since before I was the moon. Strappy black heels adorned my feet, and heavy eyeliner and lipstick were on my face. I felt good, I felt warm. I felt like the sun.
I waited for him to come home from work with a knife in my hand. On a normal day, I would be setting dinner out on the table. But the sun doesn’t cater to anyone besides herself.
I don’t remember dolling myself up, I don’t remember doing my makeup or digging through the boxes in the back of the closet to find my dress. But I remember the sound of my husband screaming when I drove the steak knife he uses for dinner every night into his chest repeatedly until he stopped moving. I remember the pools of blood around him, around me. I remember feeling freed. I remember every second.
For the first time in 13 years, not a single cell in my body was afraid.
There was still blood on my hands when I removed the credit card from his wallet and slipped it into my push up bra.
He was dead. And I - I was alive. I was the sun. And the sun bows for no one.