Untitled
The trouble with me
i don't believe in love. truthfully i no LONGER believe in love. i can't say it's his fault, I'm sure he never meant for it to get this far. it isn't my fault either...or maybe it is. if i were a stronger person or maybe if I'd have made different choices along the way. or even if i decide to draw the line here I'd still have a shot. i don't believe in love but i do love. at least in that manner that society views love i do indeed love. but i don't think that's what love is. love isn't that ugly, that frightening. love ca.t make you hate or degrade yourself this much.
i hate the fact that he only sees me when he doesn't have her. i wanna say fuck him and go on. but i want him too much. I'm caught between his promises that i yearn to believe and my own that i can't fulfill. so i put it off, put it out of my mind and and just... float.
i fell as if I'm wounded, and it's a wound that even though has stopped bleeding long ago still won't close...or maybe i don't let it. and it only grows deeper and deeper every time he comes around and shows his teary eyes only to leave me lying on the bed, alone, licking my wounds, covering my bruises.
they're sad days, the ones where he's here but ironically they're the highlight of my week. I'm his drug, the one he turns his back on after a good high, I'm his contraband, the one he keeps secret from his oh-so respectable life. and she's the one that drives him mad, she's the one i suffer from. he abuses me so he won't do the same to her. I'm his second-hand doormat/punching bag/stress release and it's funny but i don't think i want to be anything else.
I'm the circus clown, the thick make-up hiding the sick life i lead. the blush, the red on my lips, the expensive dress that clings to me like a second skin are the ones that give me an identity in other people's eyes, but none of them know the cost of such a presence.
it's 10:37 pm and I'm sitting in front of my mirror doing what i always do before i go out. i put eye drops in my red, swollen eyes, i put on foundation, mascara, eyeshadow a little blush and some red on my lips. i step back to get a better look at myself. my pale sick almost anemic pallor has disappeared and my eyes no longer betray my crying session from 15 minutes ago.
I'm only in lace underwear, the black in a heavy contrast with my white almost translucent skin. i realize that I've lost weight. my ribs are showing under the soft material of my bra, my collarbones are more visible that they've ever been and surprisingly my new body suits me. it's strange. i have this mysterious feel surrounding me, like a feline, lean and hesitant, almost shy yet there's something rigid about the way i look. i have that femme fatale alure and the thought make me flash a sad smile considering the fact that the only thing that contradicts that image are the four scratches on my porcelain abdomen. i gently touch the ridges of the mark only to realize they're still sore. i feel the dried blood underneath my fingertips and I'm drowned in memories of last night. i can still see him coming for me, pinning me to the bed, feel hot tears rolling down my cheeks along with my mascara, fell his nails digging into my flesh, he's brutal as always and i know he's looking into my eyes because they remind him of hers and he's imagining her under him. he hates her. he loves her. to her he's nothing. to me he's everything. i fight the memories and finish dressing shivering slightly at the thought of a new randez-vous tonight. i release my hair from the rollers and dark chocolate hair flows down my shoulders in large irregular waves. i have this thick dark hair going down well beyond the middle of my back. in one of our firsts night, nights that were so different from the ones we have now, he told me he loved my hair. the way it looked in the soft light of morning, the way it shapes my face, the way it looks next to my skin. those were days when we'd spend whole days in bed. those were nights filled with warmth and peace. those were days and nights that haven't been in a long time.
the someday of may when i was younger and happy, when you couldn't erase the playful smile that played along my lips is the day i forgot how to laugh.
i hate the fact that he only sees me when he doesn't have her. i wanna say fuck him and go on. but i want him too much. I'm caught between his promises that i yearn to believe and my own that i can't fulfill. so i put it off, put it out of my mind and and just... float.
i fell as if I'm wounded, and it's a wound that even though has stopped bleeding long ago still won't close...or maybe i don't let it. and it only grows deeper and deeper every time he comes around and shows his teary eyes only to leave me lying on the bed, alone, licking my wounds, covering my bruises.
they're sad days, the ones where he's here but ironically they're the highlight of my week. I'm his drug, the one he turns his back on after a good high, I'm his contraband, the one he keeps secret from his oh-so respectable life. and she's the one that drives him mad, she's the one i suffer from. he abuses me so he won't do the same to her. I'm his second-hand doormat/punching bag/stress release and it's funny but i don't think i want to be anything else.
I'm the circus clown, the thick make-up hiding the sick life i lead. the blush, the red on my lips, the expensive dress that clings to me like a second skin are the ones that give me an identity in other people's eyes, but none of them know the cost of such a presence.
it's 10:37 pm and I'm sitting in front of my mirror doing what i always do before i go out. i put eye drops in my red, swollen eyes, i put on foundation, mascara, eyeshadow a little blush and some red on my lips. i step back to get a better look at myself. my pale sick almost anemic pallor has disappeared and my eyes no longer betray my crying session from 15 minutes ago.
I'm only in lace underwear, the black in a heavy contrast with my white almost translucent skin. i realize that I've lost weight. my ribs are showing under the soft material of my bra, my collarbones are more visible that they've ever been and surprisingly my new body suits me. it's strange. i have this mysterious feel surrounding me, like a feline, lean and hesitant, almost shy yet there's something rigid about the way i look. i have that femme fatale alure and the thought make me flash a sad smile considering the fact that the only thing that contradicts that image are the four scratches on my porcelain abdomen. i gently touch the ridges of the mark only to realize they're still sore. i feel the dried blood underneath my fingertips and I'm drowned in memories of last night. i can still see him coming for me, pinning me to the bed, feel hot tears rolling down my cheeks along with my mascara, fell his nails digging into my flesh, he's brutal as always and i know he's looking into my eyes because they remind him of hers and he's imagining her under him. he hates her. he loves her. to her he's nothing. to me he's everything. i fight the memories and finish dressing shivering slightly at the thought of a new randez-vous tonight. i release my hair from the rollers and dark chocolate hair flows down my shoulders in large irregular waves. i have this thick dark hair going down well beyond the middle of my back. in one of our firsts night, nights that were so different from the ones we have now, he told me he loved my hair. the way it looked in the soft light of morning, the way it shapes my face, the way it looks next to my skin. those were days when we'd spend whole days in bed. those were nights filled with warmth and peace. those were days and nights that haven't been in a long time.
the someday of may when i was younger and happy, when you couldn't erase the playful smile that played along my lips is the day i forgot how to laugh.