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June 2, 2014 | by  | in Arts Online Only |
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Parting at the seams

Doors slam, plates thrown so easily shatter, a thousand fractured screams and tuffs of hair torn out in moments of pure hatred, litter the ground among the broken glass, your broken heart and my broken promises.

I lie between the shards of your tears and the rage of your mouth. Ripped to pieces, my insides bleed the venom of yet another argument. Stupid little me, doing something else wrong, screwing something else up, ruining this amazing thing we share. I know I sound sarcastic but honestly, sincerely, I understand you are something too good to be true and if I look away for even a moment you will fade away. Like the ghosts my mother claimed to see, lingering on the corners of her vision like hitchhikers.

Tracing my fingertips against my face I remember your touch on my throat, your hands against my face, framing the blood and the tears. Your anger is a monster, it snarls and snaps and screams. Look at it oddly and it rears up and runs its claws over your already scared face. So much easier to blame me for everything, so much easier to lash out rather than control the rage that boils acid like past your canine teeth.

You break me into pieces because you love the challenge of attempting to fit the puzzle back together. Maybe you will create something better than the original. That is, until I rip out the stitches you so lovingly sewed. My scars are my own, I will not allow them remind me of you. You have my everything. Why can’t I have this one thing?

I feed pieces of my heart into your mouth, allow you to take my breath because you need it more, curl close to you because you freeze at night even though your constricting grip threatens to break my bones. I flirt with danger each time you embrace me because you are too much, want too much, take too much.

Yet I give it all willingly because I feel too much and the only way to stop this endless stream of emotion and feelings is to smother you so I won’t drown in the ever increasing pain in my gut. Maybe your love will kill me first. I’m sure it would be a less painful way to die.

Mind you the pain is what I live for. During those times when the sun flowers and the moon weeps and I just want to stop the aching in my bones I thrive off the pain. It sharpens the dull feelings, when it hurts for you to touch me suddenly I can actually feel you. It’s like wiping the condensation off the mirror and finally seeing the world through clean, unclouded eyes. Then when you claw at my back, bite down on my throat during your ecstasy, push too far and too hard it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because the bruises and scratches are heart shaped and in my eyes, perfect and beautiful.

And it feels so good to feel the way I do. The flowers grow and the sun shines and all that shit. And while you are holding me so tightly I can barely breath I am swimming on a high of pain that I will feel on my ribs for days to come. And somehow it was okay. It didn’t matter when you caused my pain because it was driven by lust and passion. Magic words that you believe heal injuries with butterfly kisses.  Magic words I knew fuelled my pain, made me real for those few blissful moments when you swallowed the sound of my pain and I swallowed your lust.

I thought you got me, understood how my mind worked and how the gears in my body clicked and turned. It hurt most of all not when you swore and shouted and screamed but when you told me I was fucked and in reality you couldn’t love someone who was so stupid/irresponsible/immature/selfish/greedy/needy/pushy/emotionally damaged/emotionally distant/and in general too mentally screwed up for you to deal with. All the while I pressed my lips together locking in the vicious words that wanted to cackle and exclaim “Emotionally damaged? Wow I haven’t seen you at the meetings?”

How did you expect it was alright to hurt me in moments of passion yet I’m not allowed to hurt myself in moments of sadness, rage, pity. Or just emptiness. So I can actually feel something other than the emptiness. So hollow that when I breathed the air rattled around the bare bones of my skeleton. I could let you believe that you broke my heart. That now when I scream the sound echoes in the empty chamber my heart use to occupy. But let’s face it, I was broken before you came along, you don’t get to wear that pin on your sleeve because you didn’t break me. That wasn’t you honour.

And now I sit amongst your mess hoping that if I clean up all the broken glass we can just pretend none of it ever happened. That what I’ve been doing for years and I find when you squint at a broken mirror you can’t even see the cracks any more.


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