- One, it's not entirely true
that esposa means wife in English.
Once, it meant bride.
The distance between the two isn't vast just a world.
Even boyfriend lost its essential meaning.
Once, in Spanish, it might have meant newlyweds.
If held to the light,
I guess obsession holds water better than love.
In each of the stories though, the hero rescues his love
and stops the canoe
just before it tips over the world's edge.
The moral is a cliff is still a cliff
even if the hero put you on it.
It doesn't matter if one word bound you to the edge,
and the other became the river
promising to carry you over it.
None of that is the point.
I'm waiting for the canoe to tip over.
I'm waiting for him to save me.
Two, how long is it before captivity sets in?
Is it the circle of metal teeth,
its gentle latch around one wrist
or, perhaps, the step back, the silent offer,
"Now, you try, stupid man-child.
"Don't you know what you've done to me?"
Groom reads first, then bride.
I wanted you to do the fastening, both wrists.
That's not the point either.
Don't you know?
In Spanish, esposa also means handcuff.
- [Woman] Wow.
- I wanted to say no.
I tried to say no.
No, that's not true.
I didn't try to say no,
but I think I should have wanted to if I could have.
I couldn't say no.
How could I say no?
The alternative was too sad.
What is rape when it isn't done by a stranger?
Is it sad?
Should I be sad?
Am I sad?
Is rape sad if I counted the seconds
while I looked at the wall?
There would have been fingers left over.
That's how long it was.
Would it have made a difference if I used my hands?
If I chose to have fought?
If I was sad in that impossible forever
where we were tied, where we said, "Where?"
After you pulled your fingers from me,
I put myself against your side,
and you held me, and I leaned in so you could kiss me in bed
and made me feel safe, and tender, and warm.
I knew I would say nothing, or had I said no,
I knew it would kill me
because some part of me still thinks this is it,
because how else would I know I am loved?
How else would I know I am loved?
Three, memory says I must have showered.
Heartbreak asks why I would.
Here's the thing.
My wrist is getting sore.
It doesn't matter what I did.
I already know how to bind myself to something that hurt me,
but you took one choice and left me with another.
If you must be a thief, then let it be everything.
Even if I wanted to take it off,
not even time can scrub the memory of wearing it.
Claw the church's windows back into sand.
Light the whole thing ablaze.
Flood what remains until it is mushy foundation,
and a bride will still be a bride until vows say different.
Do you understand now?
You said nothing when you were in me.
So, then, picture a young boy at the altar of his own heart
waiting for his turn to speak.
Which sin is worse?
That it won't be long before the other wrist is shackled,
that I know how to put it on,
or that I learned it from my mother.
I wanted to.
I tried to,
but I couldn't.
How could I?
The alternative was stranger.
Am I the seconds left over?
How long would I have fought
if forever tied me against your side.
You and I leaned in.
Kiss me or kill me
because this is how I know I am loved.
(audience applauding)