Descent

I can't believe I'm back.

I can't believe I'm bowing down to you once a–fucking–gain, I can't believe I'm here, I can't believe I let you have all this power.

I know you're going to run me away again. That's why you're smiling down at me now, with your lips painted dark as a bruise and curved as the devil's horns. You're smiling like this because you've got the ultimate lapdog. You can do whatever you want to me and I'll come right back around if you give it enough time.

(Two weeks looks to be my limit.)

"I missed you." You say that every goddamn time because you know I'm here to stay. I hate it as much as you adore it. You always squeeze my arm or my shoulder or my thigh when I come back and you don't stop staring at me. I used to think you had love in your eyes, but I'm not that blind anymore, even though I still seem to be that stupid. "I love you so much."

There's no need for me to say anything; if I do, it'll go in one ear and out the other. I don't understand why I ever wasted my breath on you. Nothing I say is worth the time and nothing I say has an purpose. You still get what you want in the end. All I ever need to do is nod. I don't even need to smile. I don't think I can.

You keep running your fingers up and down the back of my neck, your nails just barely scratching my skin. If I'm not careful, you will. If I am careful, you will. If I don't move an inch and sit here on your steps nice and still, you will claw me and blame me. Because it's all my fault.

Because I shouldn't have come back to you.

"Please don't leave me anymore." You always ask that of me. I know I'm going to try again, maybe with blood pouring from my nose or a stagger in my step. I'm going to try again and you're going to wait right here on your stairs, your perch, your throne, waiting for me to get tired of freedom. You're going to wait until I'm overwhelmed at the thought of a normal life, and I'm going to come back because the thought of being someone that might matter is terrifying and I'll need you to any inkling of that away from me.

How can I keep coming back?

"Alright?"

I don't say anything, but I meet your eyes. You usually take that as a sign of submission, but I guess that just isn't the case tonight. Your nails are digging deep now, sharp and sending small waves of pain through the right side of my neck. I can't believe I'm back here. But what else do I know?

"Good." You're satisfied when I let out a short gasp and twitch my head in a sort-of nod. "I love you. I can't stand when you go."

I can't stand to be here.

You softly rub the sight of the new injuries you've given me, crescent-shaped indentations on my neck brushed again and again with ice cold fingers. "My pretty boy." I don't know if you think I'm prettier when I'm bruised, and I don't think I want to. You only say that after you've done something. I suppose my answer lies within that.

"Come on."

You lead me to your room, pulling on the collar of my shirt until I'm on my feet. You smile at me the whole way and I want to tell you that you look like Satan on a bad day, but that would end worse than horrible for me (and probably quite well for you). So I stay silent.

I stay silent when you nudge me onto the bed and I stay silent when you kiss me on the cheek and I stay silent when you hit my chest with a claim that you're "just joking."

I won't deserve to say a word until I learn to stop coming back to you, sitting at the foot of your throne and digging my own grave.

"I love you," you say.

You can say it until you're blue in the face.

I will never say it back.