Strawberries
I Still Love You.
I feel the pain when I lift the knife off my wrist again. I dig my nails into my palm and squint my eyes, breathing out slowly.
I could blame you for all this, tell you it’s all your fault for making me this way, having no other way to control my feelings. Mostly, feelings you caused. But it’s not your fault. I drop the knife to the floor, walking across the room to my dresser. I pull out an old sock and hold it against my arm, the pressure making it burn.
I slam the drawer shut, breaking the silence. I’m alone in the house right now, while you’re enjoying your dinner with Rory. Or maybe you’re back at home already, in bed with her. Making love to her, possibly, slowly and sweetly, no louder than you have to be. Much unlike when you do it with me - roughly, with you being the only one getting any real pleasure out of it.
I’ve seen the way you look at her - lovingly, hugging her and holding her hand and cuddling her. I can see why you like her, anyone could. She’s beautiful. When you bring her over to the house, I lock myself in my room, but I hear the way you two laugh together. Like how we used to be. I wish we hadn’t lost that. You’ll cuddle me and laugh with me, but it’s never real. Because I know you’re thinking about Rory through all of it. You’ve been with her for a few months now, haven’t you? Does she even know you’re seeing someone else? I suppose not. She’s just a decoy so no one finds out about our nonexistent relationship, right?
I pull the sock off my arm, wincing. Walking into the bathroom, I toss it carelessly on the floor and start a stream of warm water in the sink. I clean the cuts, gritting my teeth. The water makes the burn sink in, but also soothes it a little and cleans it.
I look up into the mirror. My eyes are red, my hair is messy and I generally look disgusting. I wrap a towel around the wrist, squeezing it and sighing. You’d be disgusted if you saw me like this.
I still love you, more than anyone. Even though you’re the cause of most of this. Weird, how that works.
I could blame you for all this, tell you it’s all your fault for making me this way, having no other way to control my feelings. Mostly, feelings you caused. But it’s not your fault. I drop the knife to the floor, walking across the room to my dresser. I pull out an old sock and hold it against my arm, the pressure making it burn.
I slam the drawer shut, breaking the silence. I’m alone in the house right now, while you’re enjoying your dinner with Rory. Or maybe you’re back at home already, in bed with her. Making love to her, possibly, slowly and sweetly, no louder than you have to be. Much unlike when you do it with me - roughly, with you being the only one getting any real pleasure out of it.
I’ve seen the way you look at her - lovingly, hugging her and holding her hand and cuddling her. I can see why you like her, anyone could. She’s beautiful. When you bring her over to the house, I lock myself in my room, but I hear the way you two laugh together. Like how we used to be. I wish we hadn’t lost that. You’ll cuddle me and laugh with me, but it’s never real. Because I know you’re thinking about Rory through all of it. You’ve been with her for a few months now, haven’t you? Does she even know you’re seeing someone else? I suppose not. She’s just a decoy so no one finds out about our nonexistent relationship, right?
I pull the sock off my arm, wincing. Walking into the bathroom, I toss it carelessly on the floor and start a stream of warm water in the sink. I clean the cuts, gritting my teeth. The water makes the burn sink in, but also soothes it a little and cleans it.
I look up into the mirror. My eyes are red, my hair is messy and I generally look disgusting. I wrap a towel around the wrist, squeezing it and sighing. You’d be disgusted if you saw me like this.
I still love you, more than anyone. Even though you’re the cause of most of this. Weird, how that works.