"penknives"
As I look back on it now, I realize what terrified me most: he reminded me of things I didn't remember, as they hadn't yet existed. What I mistook for love was a constant deja-vu of experiences and consequences that had never been born. I thought I would like it, even if it did kill me: and I knew the whole time it would. His hands closing on my throat was as close to love as he could ever bring me; the absence of his hands left both my neck and my chest hollow and cold. Lack of that constant falling-rising sensation is emptiness. Never had I felt fuller, or more extreme. Even when I wasn't enjoying him or it, which was more often than not, eleven to one, I never felt empty. There was terror, anger, hate. Passion, will, hope.
Now, I'm neither hot nor cold. I'm not full, but full of lack.
Would I wish this upon myself again, take or ask him back another time, just so I can feel empty for one less week in my life... So we can go through the whole process one more time, and one time after that. Feel him choking me one more time, just to feel anything at all one more time. And ask for it again, just to hope... one more time. I would not. Maybe, supposing the occasion arose. But I don't long, or yearn. Should the occasion to have him back arise, it will not be because I asked. I did not enjoy the killing, the terror, hate, angst. So why would I ask...
Why would I ask? And that's where I'm stuck. Because I know if he were to push it further, just a bit further, playing the game he knows so well it would seem he created it, acting and lying that he needs me (what a laugh! When one needs food, one eats, oxygen, one breathes)... a few more words from him, and I'm bound to ask.
Why did I ask?
I disgust myself.
Now, I'm neither hot nor cold. I'm not full, but full of lack.
Would I wish this upon myself again, take or ask him back another time, just so I can feel empty for one less week in my life... So we can go through the whole process one more time, and one time after that. Feel him choking me one more time, just to feel anything at all one more time. And ask for it again, just to hope... one more time. I would not. Maybe, supposing the occasion arose. But I don't long, or yearn. Should the occasion to have him back arise, it will not be because I asked. I did not enjoy the killing, the terror, hate, angst. So why would I ask...
Why would I ask? And that's where I'm stuck. Because I know if he were to push it further, just a bit further, playing the game he knows so well it would seem he created it, acting and lying that he needs me (what a laugh! When one needs food, one eats, oxygen, one breathes)... a few more words from him, and I'm bound to ask.
Why did I ask?
I disgust myself.