The Death That Is You
*Trigger warning: sexual assault, self harm
You are the death of me.
If I had another opportunity to love you again I would do so without any hesitation or fear.
I would love you despite the nagging feeling that all was not well,
I would love you more than maintaining a healthy bank balance.
If I were in your arms again, between your thighs again, I would love you more passionately, I would love you more fiercely, I would love you despite the loathing I felt for myself as I made love to you.
Not because you disgusted me or I was ashamed of you, but because with each motion of rough penetration, I felt you push so deep it scraped my soul.
With each rough thrust I felt you take me away, take all of me away.
When you carelessly pulled my legs open and put your hell-warming mouth on my soul’s tunnel, I moaned out in anguish and agony, because with each lick and suck your saliva burnt through to my soul, your poison crept into my lifeless soul and lover I became you, I became her, I became the woman who had hurt you, the one you fucked each and every day in so much anger that you forget about me.
I didn’t care though because my love would fix you, I would pray for you and the demons that possessed you would scatter in fear, I would be your mother, sister and goddess, in essence I would be your trinity and I would bring your salvation because in you I had found a God and in me you would find ever-lasting faith.
I sat in our apartment and tried to find how you saw her in me, did her stretch marks also resemble a battlefield? Did she go to the bathroom after sex and cut her arms so deep that once the blood started dripping on the tile floors it resembled poison ivy and possession? Did she, too, overdose on pills just to linger and savor the beauty of death?
But I came back for you, each and every time I felt my soul leave my wretched body, your soul cried out for me and I came back for you, for what could be and for what never was.
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