I remember the days when I ached for him. I wanted to take all of his pain away. I wrote the pain onto my body deep in the night, slowly drowning in my own self-loathing. He cared. Did he? A cut for a cut? He made me sick. Under his loving hand, my brain cursed me. It begged for me to stop the pain, and then turned on me. Poison ran through my veins, rotting away my emotions. He made me stop feeling. How long did he make me pretend before I forgot how to be happy? The day I left him, I cried with joy. I was still broken, but my pieces were still there. He wouldn't let me put them together yet. He even came to stop me.
Gentle hands had turned to angry fists, rattling the door in its frame. Were they ever really gentle? Clasping tightly onto wrists that weren't his own, roughly grabbing my face telling me to lookatme. Crying while propped up against the couch, my hand stung from the slap that maybe still stung his face. Was it different from the times that we fought as a game? Did he ever understand that it didn't feel like a game to me? Did he know how, after a year of recovery, that I still cried at night, begging another to punish me because I probably deserved it? NO. It wasn't a game for me. But now, I felt a part of a different game. How long did the fists stop hitting my front door before I heard the key unlocking it? Not long enough. He had broken back into my house. I had not yet pulled together the shuddering mass that I was while I panicked. My breaths came fast and shallow, my hands trembling like leaves. Was that him, next to me, crying? How did he feel when we started to talk then, standing. Could he tell how terrified I was? When he got close, so close to me, closer when I asked him to stayawayyou'rescaringmeSTOP! When I backed into my parents' bedroom door, could he even fathom all of the guilt he put on me that I didn't deserve? Even when I tried to help him after he broke in now. I was supposed to be rid of him. When I fell down that door, telling him to, no, screaming for him to leave, did he understand that I felt like I was dying? Did he know that I was dying? As he reached out to comfort me, did he know that his touch scalded my skin? He was never supposed to make me cry again. Was he even aware that after he left, I lay there for another half an hour, weeping?
I remember my first break-in. It was him. The first boy I ever loved, the only boy I hate, and the only boy who ever made me hate myself. He will never read this, but if by some chance of fate he does, he needs to know this: You do not own me anymore. Soon I will not want to crumble at the sight of you, or at the sound of your name. I will not flinch at the touch of another, feeling you. All scars will fade.