Numb, Naked, Fading Girl

Written by Jinapher J. Hoffman

I tremble.

He leans in, wraps an arm around my waist.

I forgot his name.

His kiss is aggressive, hungry.

Mine dissipates into nothing. I fade and fade and fade, until I’m alone. I’m naked.

He’s gone. The bathroom, I think.

I stare at his ceiling. White. Smooth. His fan circles around in a never-ending struggle.

A flush. A faucet.

I beg for nerves. I beg for butterflies. I beg for elation. I beg for a pounding heart. Yet, I am nothing but sorry. Sorry to myself. Sorry to my heart. Sorry to my body.

He gets under the covers, faces away from me, gets on his phone. He’s dressed.

“I guess we’re done.” I swallow.


I slip into my clothing and walk out the door, down the steps, to my car. I drive away in silence, the radio a low growl of white noise. No ones on the road this late. No soul dares drive next to me, somehow knowing if they did, I’d beg for a crash, pray for a collision. Then, maybe, I’d feel something, anything.

I pull over to the side of the road, try to make sense of the placid face staring me down in the visor mirror. I just want to be loved, I think. I run my fingers over my lips. I want my body to be devoured by someone who tucks my hair gingerly behind my ear, kisses my cheek on the beach, watches movies with me till dawn. I slam my fists against my steering wheel, my body shaking a furious rage. What am I worth? Certainly, it can’t be this.

I lean my seat back, stare at the stars from the windshield. My brain says to cry, but my eyes won’t cooperate. “Send someone to fix me,” I whisper to the sky. “I’m not strong enough to do this alone.”