Laying here, listening to the train pass, I think about the spikes holding the track together. Screws designed for one job. Little workers are the foundation to something that could crush them in an instant. Yet, they keep the train from derailing, the wheels passing. I've tried to be patient but I'm becoming one of these spikes, close to breaking. Each car's weight heavier with no sex, no baby, no emotions, no staying sensual. Fine. It's always "I'm fine," "Yes babe, I can go another week" -whatever the train wants to do.
You can hear each turn of the wheels as they pass over the tracks. Paths laid by another just trying to make a living. Railways worn down. Only re-laid when something bad happens. When I start to have a little choice in the matter, or tell how I truly feel it's: "don't you love me," "don't you want to make me not kill myself," "what's keeping me alive is you, don't you know that?" The only thing holding the loco motor on is that spike that constantly takes a beating.
I wanted one child and now, after getting up, wiping my face, and the last drop of water hits the silver rim of my sink, the last bit of hope I had for becoming a mother goes with it from my eyes. We are no longer trying. What's the point of living if we can't recreate life? I want to lay in front of an oncoming train and not even flinch as it passes over my body, breaking my bones. I want to feel my them splinter with the passing of each wheel, to release everything. Take the hurt that I have building inside me as the train comes closer and scream with the brakes as they try to stop.
Having to wait and practically beg for sex when my ovaries are trying to release so hard that they hurt is not normal. The train doesn't care about the eroding track pin. It doesn't care that, with each passing day, the strain and warping of the screw is slowing breaking down the strength and support of their relationship. With each utterance of rejection, the pin weakens, and the train's burden cripples the track. Right now all he cares about is telling me that he does everything for me. And that he doesn't have a normal testosterone level. He'd rather take pity on himself rather than take a moment to understand. He doesn't realize the inevitable derailment.
Andria Nealis may have graduated from Western Kentucky University in December 2014 with a Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing, but her main accomplishment in life was finding the one person to share every moment and hardship with her loving husband.