Fallout

How much of this can i blame on you? Where is the seam sewn that subtly separates your arm from my torso? It’s been years now. Maybe it’s been enough. when I said I was done, I was empty. I felt nothing. For the first few weeks I didn’t even miss you. I thought of you, but it didn’t make my heart feel like your hand was around it, squeezing it so my blood seeped out between your knuckles. I felt...okay. I always thought that in the end everything would be okay, and maybe that’s why I felt like I was ready to be done. Remember the flaw in your introversion? You always forgot that I keep breathing without you. I suppose it was one of our greatest common traits. I forgot that I keep breathing without you. What an awful surprise when I inhaled and you weren’t even there to see it. Sometimes I can’t remember why I do anything when you’re not there to see it. Sometimes I sing and I let my voice trail off because I know it cannot reach your ears, so what’s the point? Your opinion of me always dictated my self-esteem. I think you knew that. Maybe you took advantage of it because you were young. Sometimes I just think you’re evil. You watched your words sear like you were branding your disapproval into my skin. You watched my tender flesh smolder, as your sentiments sizzled like acid deep into my fat cells, my muscle, my vital tissues. I think that always made you come. Your sadistic sex seemed so natural at one point. I can’t remember why now. I wish I could. I fight the sleep because that’s when you come back. You come back and I’m four months pregnant in a giant garden where the babies live before we women let them suture into our wombs and grow human bodies there. You come back and I’m four months pregnant and you tell me you’re leaving. I’m four months pregnant and I can’t be helped. I can’t get out of me what you’ve embedded into my tender folds. You always do this. You always come inside of my fertile mind. You know damn well how pregnable my brain is. You knock my consciousness up. Tie me down with your synaptic seed. Then you leave me to raise these ideas on my own. You’re a deadbeat. Him. He should’ve stopped. Maybe I didn’t come right out and say it, but he knew what I was thinking. He knew what I meant when I pled with him. He knew his ignorance was cutting me a thousand times. Tiny cuts, but so many, such volume, it was nearly enough to kill me, to deafen my central nervous system. A thousand slivers all infected with white hot intolerance. A thousand slits he had to make, because that one I was born with controlled him so forcefully. He had to escape so badly, he didn’t realize I wasn’t trying to hold him captive in the first place. He left me desolate. I tried to stop him. I guess when he got far enough away to see things clearly he looked back at me and suddenly thought I was beautiful. It just wasn’t enough for me. Not once I’ve been left forlorn. Not once I’ve been told I’m damaged. Now I see myself how you did. Now you see me different, but my eyes are the same. I never feel beautiful when I’m with you. I feel old and desperate. I feel embarrassed still. I don’t know how to make these cuts close up. Part of me doesn’t want to, diamonds only sparkle if you cut them many times. I’m so injured, but if you hadn’t done this, I’d still be only a rock. It is so painful to shine. It is so scarring to hold value. Now. Now I am damaged. There are some similarities between you two. Your pride. Your cockiness. The way you crave my praises. I turned you over and over and found a hundred things to love about you within the first week of meeting you. You looked at one side of me and pushed me out of your arms. I will never forget that. I will never ask you to hold me again. I may wish you would, but I won’t ask it. I’ve a bit of pride myself. Secondly, the drugs. Everything that’s going on right now is only half real, the rest is the marijauna enhancing the great things and helping you forget the bad ones. Half of your love isn’t real. When you tell me how you care about me, I always deduct 50% automatically. Better safe than shattered. In the end one of us will be shattered. It’s just a matter of whether or not the other will pick up those pieces and carry them along until they find something to glue them back together with. I got shattered last time. He left my pieces, cursing me for being breakable. You are fools. I’m only breakable so that you may know you have the power to destroy someone. I’m only breakable to feed your pride. So that you may sleep soundly every night you don’t rip my soft little girl body to shreds, proud of your ignorant mercy. You fucking fools.