At What Point Do Bi-women Tell the Voices In Their Head to Be Quiet?

How does one spend five years with someone and still not know them?!

Single, Black, independent bi-women hear voices, too.

Beatrice is a 36-year-old charge nurse in the OR for St. Agnes Memorial Hospital in Blue Lake Falls County. She is a sufferer of migraines, a prisoner to insomnia, and a magnet for bowed-leg men who don’t know any better.

On the eve of her fifth anniversary of work, she began reminiscing about Mike. Mike with the double-dimpled cheeks, endless credit line, and badass walk. But . . . he was a stranger to commitment.

Why is it Mike?! Why would she think about him after the way he left things between them?

He still has two bags of clothing and a pair of shoes in my closet! The nerve of that man! He was supposed to come and get this shit months ago.

She looks around her somber bedroom for clues. Did he leave anything else? No. Just his voice.

And his voice, along with that of Charlie and Omaira’s, seemed to play hopscotch in her mind multiple times per day.

Charlie scooped her heart right from her chest, licked the pain away that surrounded it, and added more. Intentionally or unintentionally, she still isn’t sure.

Omaira had been a woman she met through a mutual friend (let’s call her Sydnee), who thought she would like to try something different. And “different” was perfect for her for five years.

Until it wasn’t. Omaira gave Beatrice one last orgasm before stealing her vintage jewelry, three pairs of costly heels, and the spare key to her car. The car — she had taken to a local chop shop. Easy money.

She wouldn’t find out Omaira had been battling kleptomania until weeks later. She spins the thought of it around in her head once again.

How does one spend five years with someone and still not know them?!

She hated this quality of hers; the knowing and unknowing of things she so casually continued to do. She wanted to hear something else. Anything other than their voices.

Needless to say, these were people she shouldn’t be thinking about, but she was. And isn’t that how love is sometimes?

It sneaks up on us in one of its best disguises, lures us in, carves out a piece of our heart, and then exits stage left — leaving us limp-lipped and unamused.

The alarm clock screeches. It is 06:00 AM. Another night without sleep. Another night without rest.

Another night of fighting those voices in her head.

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Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.