I’ve been used.
Perhaps so thoroughly I don’t have anything left to offer.
The past few days, you have walked in and out of my house on your time, as if you own it. Before work, after work, in the wee hours of the morning..whenever the mood should strike you.
And I’ve been here, watching your erratic behavior with my eyes lowered.
We’ve barely talked, it has been days. I don’t remember the last sentence of substance you said to me. I remember all the smut.
You haven’t asked if I hurt, and I do.
You don’t care that I hurt.
I haven’t seen your grin, the delicious left-heavy grin that tells me I’m about to scream for you. I have seen the rage and the coldness in your eyes, the kind I haven’t seen in years. I’ve been afraid to scream, even though it hurts so much.
I’m afraid the distance I see in your eyes is so real you might not be able to hear me scream anyway.
I haven’t done a thing to upset you, yet I’ve apologized even for breathing loudly.
You haven’t looked at me longingly. It’s almost as if you’ve been taking me with hatred instead of love. And if your love is harsh, your hatred is being sentenced to the gas chambers within an inch of death hundreds of times over.
I’ve been crawling around you, not to please you, because it is has been difficult to walk. You know that, don’t you?
You’ve been watching the tears roll down my cheeks. You know I have been silent-crying under you for days. And you’ve been turning me around for no reason but that. You hate my tears now? Or do you know I’m not just crying in pain?
I feel strange in my clothes, unnatural.
Look at me, see me as a vessel for your pain not an object for it.
Tell me, say I’ve disappointed you and let me explain. But that’s a privilege, is it not?
I freeze when I see you now, petrified, I want to cry for help when you grab me in anger. The only person I can beg to help me is you, but I cant see you.
You’re so far away, I’ve sucked you dry of empathy and hung myself by a rope before you.
I know who you’ve become, I’ve met him before but I’ve never known him. No one can, I’d imagine. I’ve never known what to do to soften him.
I would try reasoning with you, but I’d rather not risk addressing you directly. Besides you’ve looked into my eyes, you know all I have to say. But I suspect you don’t care to hear it.
Why wont you take me as a man takes a woman? Or an animal takes another, even?
What you’re doing is heartbreaking.
I cannot even tend to myself, I feel you want me in pain and not to complain or question or even notice what you’ve done to me. Yet, if these wounds don’t heal well, I know it will be my fault.
I’m drowning in a sea of questions, and I hope it is not you knocking on my door right now, coming back to use me again.
Oh yes, please use me again.
**Note: Talk about scattered writing!