“You’re the best kind of drug” he says, as he stands in outstretched in the doorway, surveys me in my shame on the bed. “I’ll let you lay here in your guilt alone a couple minutes” and walks out.
I feel my body shake with anger, a growing rage inside towards only my own fault, it’s all reflected back on me. A moth intrigued by the glimmer of the web only to get caught. Such a fool, each time I come when called- “loyal as a dog”, and “always his” he reminds me. I can’t escape it. Strings to a puppet.
Every waking moment I feel like he knows my thoughts, I can never describe my bond with him, there is no fondness but I love him; how we fit, how he knows every trigger I have, but just as quick as I am lifted like a pulley system- higher and closer to bliss, finally free from woes the ground, he lets go..
And here I lay. I know this part is here, but each time there’s a hope that maybe I’m better, maybe I’m finally good enough, maybe my desperation is hidden well enough for him not to let me fall; but then I have to remind myself of when I lost the one perfect gift of our love, then grim reality crawls in like an autumn fog.
He always comes back. After the fall and crash from his words and actions, but only to examine and to acknowledge my wounds, never to apologize or tend, but to survey the damage of my mangled heart that never stops longing for him, and to walk out.
© Copyright 2016 Beatrice Bee. All rights reserved.
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