And I’m searching for that calm space in my mind, as his hand is around my throat and he’s biting my shoulder and I can’t move and he’s fucking me, telling me it’s love and he’s the only one who truly loves me but I can’t move and my safe-word meant nothing and he tells me he knows what’s best for me while he’s imagining a 22 year old girl who sends him pictures and says she has no one else to talk to.
And then he whispers how he only writes poetry for me and he loves mine and I make him feel special and that he disciplines me because he loves me and that he only talks to me and doesn’t talk to anyone else but I actually know that he does and I let him lie to me about that and it’s the tender moments that keep me with him, it’s the draw of his heart and it’s his sexuality and his words are beautiful, until they aren’t anymore, even as he tells sweet lies mixed in with truth. His truth.
And I had told myself not to give my heart to just anyone but he said all the right things. He read me like a fucking book. He played every note perfectly. His timing impeccable and I guess it would be, him being a musician and all. And he hinted at the real him, here and there and I ate it up, lapped it like a dog eating vomit off the floor and, begging for more.
Goddamnit why did I do this? I knew… I knew, it was too fucking good to be true. And still I kept at him, because despite one glaring problem, I knew he was just fucking perfect for me. So, all in all, I’m laying here bruised and mistreated and he’s almost completely spent and that means he’s almost done and he’ll roll over and fall asleep and it’s in this moment I realize that I brought this upon myself.
None of it was real.
I’m still searching for that calm space inside me and I see him looking back at me and I remember when I let him in. Oh yeah. That’s right. Shit. Now I have nowhere to go.
tara caribou | ©2019
Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine. This is a revised repost.