I saw it again today. I felt the weight of you pressing down upon my chest as I watched your hands coming at me again and again. There is no memory of pain, just the weight heavy on my chest.
It’s never full recollection, just glimpses through the haze of my sub-conscious. You are always there, hidden just below the surface they call S. So deeply submerged and relegated to a past. A past me. A past you. A time past.
I am so disjointed. There is strangely no emotion with the memory. Just the weight, so heavy on my chest. No fear either, just suspended disbelief as I limply accept the assault. So dreamlike in its’ state, through the mists of psychotropics, that at times I question its’ authenticity. Is this memory or empathetic fantasy- the eternal stereotype of the battered and oppressed? Am I she?
“Is this what you want!?!”, you shout over and over as your slaps rain down in a monsoon of emotion. I hear the reply forming in the deep recesses of broken me. Yes. Let it come to this. Beat me. Hate me. Love me. Oh, please love me I beg of you. Feel any great emotion so that I may remain real. At least you are here, kicking me where I lay. Yes. Let it come to this. From here we can sink no further and as such we are free. Yes, this is what I want. Your love. Your hate. Your violence. You above all else. I am nothing without you as you yourself say.
We were young. Still are. I adored you from the first. So handsome and smart and damaged. You waited for me. So eager and humble and damaged. Both too desperate too be loved but too quick to loath. I was never enough. You were always too much. The relationship was a constant give and take. I gave and you took. Why wouldn’t you? I was so eager and humble and damaged, you were so handsome and smart and damaged. I slowly disappeared into you and became the part of yourself you hated the most. And I loved it. All my self destruction manifest as a demon I could adore.
Adore you I did. I nurtured you, my beloved demon. Feeding you with my nightmares, scars and insecurities. You became fat on the scraps of my self respect, rewarding me always with the promise of love and acceptance. I gave and gave until all you had left to love and blame was that empty husk lying un-crying in the weak light of the dying day. Is this what you want?
“Is this what you want?” Your words slip back beyond the surface as I rip up slightly and return to the present. Such a brief moment in time I think, as you lift your weight of my chest.
I never told you how I hated the flower you bought me months after it was ‘all over’. So hungry for my air, so eager to burn me up. Did you forget that once the air is gone the fire will die too? Am I your demon? I knowingly shudder at the thought.
I shudder at all the thoughts. I shudder at the thought of your desperate death wish. I shudder at the thought of my own shameful weakness. I shudder at the thought of all those who knew and chose not to say. Just another unspoken incident in a world abuzz with silence and severed tongues. I shudder for the memories always rippling just below the surface, quietly waiting to spout forth in an explosion of emotion.
I shudder to think it was me but could just as easily have been you.