The story is complicated, and I’m not sure I even want to make it make sense for you (yes you, random clickhole casualty). I wasn’t even going to touch this name, I’ve spent years avoiding this name despite how incredibly common it is.
I was crying, but there was legit something in my eye this time. My ex used to always remark about how often things fell in my eyes, and I remember in my dream at some point there was a toddler wearing goggles under his glasses, and squirting vinegar in my eyes. Wtf, I can’t remember whose kid it was, but he was Black, and it felt like it was my ex’s house (I said that, but I see that I mean my ex’s parents house) but the layout felt like my most recently deceased Uncle’s house.
I remember looking at my ex, eating ribs with his hands, and thinking about how hot he was. The way his collarbones flex when he swallows. The skin at the base of his neck, like porcelain, or more accurately, the surface of a perfectly still puddle of milk. Opaque, but yet the eye can see the depth. Then he swallows, then it moves. So beautiful, skin like a living cotton sheet. I love sleeping there. The boy is the same, at that one spot… and I took the whole man because of that. Beyond that, they are not the same at all. And beyond that, let’s be honest, I don’t really like either of them.
I used to imagine that at my funeral, while I was waiting to bleed out of the only wrist that I could hold a knife to after he dislocated the other shoulder, or drifting off into whatever chemical oblivion I hoped would finally be better than having someone so beautiful tell me once again that I was the worst thing that ever happened to anyone, that I was selfish, and not good enough, and just a horrible whore and no good to anyone and an embarrassment to his family, and there was not enough money in the account and why don’t I just go fuck someone for it and obviously I’m not good enough or I’d get as much money as the white girls on the internet and now he can’t touch me because I’m a dirty whore and I’m so pathetic I can’t even kill myself… I used to imagine that at my funeral they would say that it was a shame I was so beautiful.
I know how my ex got to be the way he is, but I have never understood why he would choose to be that way to me. I thought we were supposed to be better than that to each other. His life was not good, I know. Neither was mine, and he knows that too. So why, rather than be each other’s safe haven, does he just derive such joy and false feelings of superiority because he thinks he knows where my sore points are and he’s finally found a foe he can truly defeat. So thoroughly exploitative, I would never in a million years do that to anyone, anyone who would ever be so good to me as to even say they love me, and try to make it look like they did. I would never do that to him.
I never asked him to help me move, I never asked him for help with anything. He volunteered, but for some reason I feel like it’s not sincere. Pity, maybe, my shoulders pinch together as I say that as I can tell that I’m afraid that that’s true. He thinks I’m crazy, and I am, and it’s time to go back to the only life I could find where that was worth tons and tons of money so that no one pities me anymore.
Why am I scared? Why do I let him do this to me? I have let myself be scared of him for so long, I suppose, after a nice long pause, after a few years of reflection, I can finally begin to admit that maybe he was abusive, and it wasn’t just me being awful, or even just us being awful to each other.
I just got up and walked around. I have so many feelings for that man, most of them are not good. I have the stereotypical “one hot tear” going down the left side of my face, mourning the loss of a male figure.
And that was literally all I wrote before I realized that I was down to my last sip of coffee, in the corner of my office (yay I have an actual office now), wondering if I should plug in my work phone or tablet into the dangling charge cord that I just picked my phone up from.
The uncertainty of my poor poor brother when he tries to talk to my dad, he knows that the love is earned rather than intrinsic, even though no one has ever admitted it, and I don’t know if anyone even consciously knows. My mother is the kind of woman that would let her doubt become a static behind the scream of the lies she tells herself over and over, and my father doesn’t have a mind big enough in that regard to imagine what his wife does while he’s away on business. But he knows my brother is not his, subconsciously, and has never loved him as such.
Then he kissed me, and I just love the texture of his tongue sliding against mine. It’s agressive, but not invasive, just like him. It was a great night, but I broke one of my Sylvie Montpaneusse or whatever g-string “confidence boosters” as I like to call them.