Confessions three months later

I always say this will be the last blood I shed for you. That this will be the last tear; the last thought or memory. And day after day I find myself a liar. But I suppose that’s not so different to how you must have felt each time you saw me and told me you loved me.

It makes me laugh that now, you cannot do anything about these lines of crimson that mark my body; because you live too far away. But the ironic thing is that you used to be able to, and you chose not to.

I don’t stain my body, cut these lines, in areas that anyone can see them. They are reserved for privileged people. Those who see the skin of my stomach, the upper legs and lower ankles or that one person who saw me naked. You saw them, ALL of them…those cuts made after a date that I “screwed up” or after you left early.

You saw them, felt those bumpy scabs under your hands, and didn’t comment. Not at all…even after you saw the mess I made my stomach, even after I tried so hard to stop for you…but what does it matter? You’re gone and you are really silent about them now.

When a girl loses her virginity, she bleeds. I bled alright, but not from the normal area. No, I bled from cuts placed on my arms and legs in the shower when I got home. It wasn’t special; it wasn’t where I thought it would be or how I imagined. It was…just like all the other times we played around. And all I felt was dirty and miserable, because it really WAS like those times we played around; since there wasn’t any time to cuddle or lie together afterwards. I had to be home, and that was that.

For the first time in our entire relationship, in the three months that we were dating before we had sex, I almost managed to orgasm. I almost managed to come through something you were doing to me. I don’t know why, but all the other times…the fingering and the oral sex…you didn’t do anything for me. But me, being the type of person I am, lied so I didn’t hurt your feelings.

I wonder if you knew all along? I don’t see how you could have. I don’t think I was capable of cumming in the way you wanted me to…but for that, I would have needed a penis.

You did two insanely hurtful things while we were having sex (other than the fact you could never keep it up). First, was that I was always on top. This got exhausting after about the first hour and I could barely stay upright. I would lie down on top of you to rest, and you would immediately push me back up. It was as though you weren’t done, so how dare I rest?!

And second, the last 2 times that we did it, you didn’t undress me. It was as though you were too much in a rush to have sex, and later to disappoint, that it didn’t occur to you what effect it would have on me. Either that, or you didn’t actually WANT to see my naked body. To see the small feminine curves that I possessed because it reminded you that you weren’t bedding a man.

I honestly believe that I was the last ditch attempt. I believe that you dated me to prove to yourself that you liked woman, to prove to everyone. I also believe that you chose me to have sex with, and that you didn’t actually love me in the slightest. You said to me that you had to come in sex, or there would be something wrong with you. Well, in the 12 times we had sex, you didn’t come once. You said you were going to 3 times, but you didn’t.

The thing that I hate is that I don’t…of the two guys I have dated; neither of them pine after me. They have removed me from their lives and are thus pleased to move on. I on the other hand am forced to endure their memories, the longing because I had stupidly given them my heart.

For once, I would like someone to miss ME….to think about me daily and regret their decision enough to want to get back with me. But I don’t see that happening at any point because I am simply sarah. I am not worthy of any kind of affection, and every guy I date proves this.

And yet, I know that the next boyfriend I get will receive my heart again. And he will keep it and mend it for a while, perhaps a month or two, before he grows bored with the total devotion I present to him and wants something more. Maybe something I cannot yet give.

I will crawl back to him, on my wounded hands and knees. I will sob and beg, pleading with him not to end it, not to break me again. And he will laugh and turn, sending his shoes crunching and cracking into the broken pieces crumbled on the floor, those shards of my bleeding heart that ooze pain and sorrow, love and desperation. That swarm and seep onto
my flesh until it isn’t recognizable anymore.

I don’t think I ever realized how much you meant to me. How much you were saving me until the end. I cannot call you an angel, perhaps if you had stayed with me I could have.

But now… even if you were an angel, you were an angel of pain now. Your wings have melted into cruel carcasses now; addictive… twisted skeletal remains mocking me; their fury and hurt slamming into my soul with every day that passes. Every minute of silence and every moment of your freedom.

You aren’t who I thought you were.

Obviously, you prove that every single day. And I hate you for it, but you still hold the palpating injured remains of a broken heart that was once yours.

So I can’t get over you

Not yet.

If.

Ever.

XX