You lie there, catching your quickened breath after another bout of lovemaking. At least that's what he calls it. For you, it is just another successful attempt at clinging on to an unsuccessful existence.
You lie there, on that same crumpled, yellowing comforter, with a cigarette burn from last Thursday night. Last Thursday night, when you needed to feel something. When the emptiness was swallowing you whole, so you decided to let him devour your self-worth instead. When his hand on your breast seared you to the bone, and you shivered with the sudden onset of feeling upon your being, no matter how loathsome.
You lie there, with the same Damien Rice song playing over and over again. You are sick of the song, but most of all, you are sick how loudly it rings in your ears and your head and your heart; 'Did I say that I loathe you? Did I say that I want to leave it all behind?'
You lie there, the clock ticking eerily loud. Four hours and three orgasms later, waves and waves of disgust are still washing over you like massive unexpected torrents. The astonishing part? There's a sick satisfaction filling in your punctured soul.
You lie there, a mess of both of you dripping on to the bed, adding on to the numerous stains. The warmth of it strikes hard against the sheer deathly coldness of the act that brought it about in the first place. The stains all mock you silently, bearing witness to a love sabotaged repeatedly.
You lie there, clutching and unclutching the comforter into your fists, rendering your fingers numb. The feeling of his lips on you, of him moving inside you, of a shuddering end, all of it made your head spin and your eyes water. But you couldn't shake off that feeling of having triumphed over your sense of right and wrong you were so determined to hold close this time around.
You lie there, complete with your freckles and that slight bruise on your wrists, where he tied you to the bed and rendered you helpless. Ha, such a naive soul, this one. You had already brought that upon yourself a long time ago. It didn't bother you anymore.
You lie there, staring at his chest rising and falling softly, at the mole right below his heart, at his slightly open mouth. You can't understand the reason behind his strong, ever-strengthening hold on you. Why a single phone call turns into a night of indifferent intimacy, why a kiss turns into sweat and those fleeting moments of heaven.
You lie there, and you will lie there. Till the dusk conquers twilight and gives way to the dawn. Till he wakes up and touches you again and you just keep moving mechanically, basking in the shame of letting yourself be used. Till he makes false promises of maybe loving you someday, and you giving him a hollow smile, acknowledging the lie that you both just shared.
You lie there; breathing, staring, being.
You lie there; loathing, fighting, losing.
You lie there; missing, craving, longing.
And then you'll walk out, clothed yet naked, and you will never hate yourself more.
And in that moment, you'll be hit by the blow of the love you loathe to love.
You lie there, on that same crumpled, yellowing comforter, with a cigarette burn from last Thursday night. Last Thursday night, when you needed to feel something. When the emptiness was swallowing you whole, so you decided to let him devour your self-worth instead. When his hand on your breast seared you to the bone, and you shivered with the sudden onset of feeling upon your being, no matter how loathsome.
You lie there, with the same Damien Rice song playing over and over again. You are sick of the song, but most of all, you are sick how loudly it rings in your ears and your head and your heart; 'Did I say that I loathe you? Did I say that I want to leave it all behind?'
You lie there, the clock ticking eerily loud. Four hours and three orgasms later, waves and waves of disgust are still washing over you like massive unexpected torrents. The astonishing part? There's a sick satisfaction filling in your punctured soul.
You lie there, a mess of both of you dripping on to the bed, adding on to the numerous stains. The warmth of it strikes hard against the sheer deathly coldness of the act that brought it about in the first place. The stains all mock you silently, bearing witness to a love sabotaged repeatedly.
You lie there, clutching and unclutching the comforter into your fists, rendering your fingers numb. The feeling of his lips on you, of him moving inside you, of a shuddering end, all of it made your head spin and your eyes water. But you couldn't shake off that feeling of having triumphed over your sense of right and wrong you were so determined to hold close this time around.
You lie there, complete with your freckles and that slight bruise on your wrists, where he tied you to the bed and rendered you helpless. Ha, such a naive soul, this one. You had already brought that upon yourself a long time ago. It didn't bother you anymore.
You lie there, staring at his chest rising and falling softly, at the mole right below his heart, at his slightly open mouth. You can't understand the reason behind his strong, ever-strengthening hold on you. Why a single phone call turns into a night of indifferent intimacy, why a kiss turns into sweat and those fleeting moments of heaven.
You lie there, and you will lie there. Till the dusk conquers twilight and gives way to the dawn. Till he wakes up and touches you again and you just keep moving mechanically, basking in the shame of letting yourself be used. Till he makes false promises of maybe loving you someday, and you giving him a hollow smile, acknowledging the lie that you both just shared.
You lie there; breathing, staring, being.
You lie there; loathing, fighting, losing.
You lie there; missing, craving, longing.
And then you'll walk out, clothed yet naked, and you will never hate yourself more.
And in that moment, you'll be hit by the blow of the love you loathe to love.
