Anaconda

OMG, there are so many comments on this site, all spam.

I still have yet to have the conversation with the boy, but we’ve transitioned into the mutual love stage. And yes, I feel it, though I still feel hesitant, like I should still open Hinge and get back to all the people that I was talking to because they offer some new insight into my life, and how I deal with things, and maybe they’d be better than him. Maybe they’d better understand me than he does.

But I do love him. It’s clear, and I should really stop holding back and fall in. I know he’s going to break my heart. It’s weird, I’m not at all afraid of the heartbreak, what is sadness to me anyway. I’m afraid of the lost time, the time I could have been working on myself, my projects, my bank account, my life, all wasted away because I decided to spend my time on him.

Even the comments I wrote myself are spam.

A slow, hot freeze grabs the back of my heart, fingers splayed on either side of my esophagus, pushing not squeezing. Suppose he does break my heart? Pulling, dragging my heart down the front of my ribcage like a washing board.

I woke up with him today. I love him. Everything is so great when we get along, he is wonderful. Deep breath… and it’s terrible when it’s not, but I don’t mind, I really don’t. I have to say the truth, but what is the truth?

Last weekend, he hit me. I think I hit him first. And then I was on the floor, he was on top of me, and I remember him asking me if I was alright, he was honestly terrified. But the problem in my mind is that before that, I can distinctly remember that he was strangling me. I have owned snakes before, I know the trick. They are stronger than me, and fighting makes them squeeze. So, a deep breath. A deep breath. It’s their choice whether or not to kill me. It was always their choice, but if I fight back, with them so close and my nails so sharp, they have no choice, but to finish me so that I am no longer a threat. So, Deep breath, relax. Let them consider. Deep breath, they relax, they consider.

Am I worth more to them alive or dead? Let them consider.

The exhalation is the dangerous part. They could choose to keep squeezing. If they squeeze on the exhale, I’m finished.

I know he loves me, and I know that I’m using the I pronoun like a scared, cornered animal. And he told me, lying on top of me, his hands still on my neck, how sorry he was, how he had watched his father do that to his mother and how horrible it was, and how he never wanted that to happen, because he loves me. I just felt terrible for hitting him first. I do remember hitting him first. I remember the look on his face while I did it. Did it hurt? I didn’t mean for it to hurt. It’s hard for me, so small against him, so very solid (omg he’s hot) to remember that I even *can* hurt him.

Yeah, we both have the potential to get hurt here, badly. But I’m not trying to live my life running from that fear anymore.

The marks on my neck don’t bother me so much as the fact that my Father had to see them the next day.

I have to get the air conditioners out of the basement today, it’s balls hot out there.

And I might just call my side dude to help me put them in.

We were fighting about me flirting with his friends, perhaps fucking one of them, and I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind, but so much more after he yelled at me about it. How badly would he beat me if I had done it?

I broke my ex’s nose and both eye orbits when he did that to me. I’d expect no less from him, I’d fully expect to end up dead somewhere. It would be suicide and I’m fine with that because who would *do* that to someone they loved. And so I’m not at all mad that he hit me, but I am mad that he would think that I would do that. The hand inside me slides up and is now curled in a tight fist around the base of my throat, on the inside, strangling me. It’s appropriate. Maybe I would do that.

It occurs to me that I use the same set of pronouns to describe my ex and the boy. Should I be fine with that, just like I was fine with all the abuse from my ex… the hand crawls up to cradle the back of my head, thumb pressed up under my jaw, the heel of the palm in the nape of my neck, fingers fanned from there. He had one forearm pressed against my neck, the other hand keeping my head from the floor. I put my arms out and gave up. He said he saw me disengage, and it was terrifying.

Because he loves me. And he ruined my trust, and he knew he would never get it back.

But I did trust him, and trusted that he loved me, and I trusted that if I gave up, he would not kill me, because I am worth more to him alive than dead.

I had no other choice but to trust him.

That’s how I found out that I could.

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