Member-only story
In Two Weeks, I Will Be Untouched
Notes on a breakup
The story is that in seven years, your skin is a whole new thing. Untouched. But in reality, it only takes two weeks for that hidden bottom layer to become the top layer.
In two short weeks, my lips will be ones that have not tasted your kiss upon them, nor whispered vows of adoration and eternity.
In two short weeks, my fingertips will have forgotten the feeling of your warmth beneath them. They will no longer remember the silk of your skin.
In two short weeks, the sensation of our legs tangled under the sheets will be a ghost to me. The weight of you will no longer be printed into the valleys of my figure.
In two short weeks, I will have freckles that will never know your cartographer’s touch.
In two short weeks, the pieces of me that remember you will be in other places, left behind in my beloved city bathed in red lights, smeared on shot glasses in dirty bars, and smoked away in the ashes of cigarettes.
So too, it takes three days for the mind to right itself when the world has been turned upside down. And though I will want to, in three days, I will not love you.
And though he has always demanded more — more touch, more love, more of me — than I had to give, I said to him:
“In two short weeks, I will be someone you have never touched.”
This story was published in response to Human Parts’ Weekend Writing Prompt, “Tell the story of your body, its peaks and valleys, strengths and shortcomings and secrets, in whatever way feels true.” To receive prompts like this one every weekend, subscribe to our newsletter by following Human Parts.
