Stefanie Shapiro

Stefanie Rose Shapiro holds a Doctor of Letters in Writing from Drew University, an MPH from Harvard, and an MA in Forensic Psychology from John Jay College of Criminal Justice. She is a Lecturer in Rhetoric and Composition at SUNY Maritime College. Her work has appeared in DarkWinter Literary Magazine, New Jersey Bards Poetry Review, Wensum, and Platform Review.

Consumption

He said: I’m sorry that I no longer love you or like you and I found solace and warmth with a rotund woman who doesn’t nag, mock, or pity me. I couldn’t tell you I hated slimy, cold chicken breast that reminded me of my mother’s failings and my own intense hunger. I craved biscuits with fresh cherry jam and clotted cream but you deemed them unhealthy and indulgent, and she gave me that sweetness. She wrapped me in her robust arms, my breath stifled by her immense attention and care and told me tomorrow we’d have for dinner whatever I needed.

She said: But you are not sorry. You drank Guiness and vodka and vomited vitriol until you passed out cold on our front porch, slumped in the swinging seat you built, your dangerous tongue lolling towards your barren heart, your glasses kissing your lips. But you didn’t ever kiss mine. No. I starved myself, guzzled La Croix while I vacuumed crumbs, picked up poker cards, massaged your sore muscles after every game. I wanted to watch the sun rise in the middle of the night, but you gambled at 2 am, behind closed doors, saying you would provide for us, love us, make me a baby. But I am without; I am cold; I am empty. You are not sorry. You are a man--a man who thinks the rules of life are simple. I am not simple, but in the end, it turns out that our love was.