Another night alone. You would think I would have gotten over it or at least gotten used to it by now. But I don’t and I haven’t. It’s funny – knowing one person can have so much power over you – but it’s only funny for so long, until it cripples you. This longing has left me waiting, drenched in forgotten rain, by the gravel road in front of his house, unable to move, hoping for an answer – one that might be a yes. But silence leads me to believe that he will never come out. I’m left alone, the bitter raindrops disguising my tears, outside of that warm place I used to call safe. That house, that prison, that cage – it holds him hostage from letting go and letting me in. His doorknob recoils from his touch, barring him from ever really leaving. I pity it, even though it’s silly; I’d like to be that doorknob. At least I know he’d touch me every day. Oh, to be those walls – the ones that surround him in warmth and keep him safe. I never thought the outside world would touch us, darling, but look at what we’ve done. Ohh, to be that ceiling – where he would look up every morning and remember he’s alive. If I could live as a piece of his house, I’d be content. At least I’d make him feel at home. I used to be home. Now I’m estranged from it. If I could just be the window he stares out of longingly every morning, I could feel wanted, needed almost. The rickety old armchair in his living room would even be acceptable, if I could hold his weight. His soft, fluffy pillow would also be grand, but pretty soon he’d let go. There would only be so much time until he would leave again. If I had a choice… but I don’t. I’m left with one option – to lie down and accept this. And what position am I then assigned to? The floor. The one he walks all over, steps on, and expects not to break under his pressure. He nonchalantly beats his soles against my skin, warping me into whatever mirrors his steps, even though I may not agree with them. I’m forced to watch ginger footsteps follow his up the stairs, the ones that creak with sorrow, the ones I used to climb at night, when we had to be quiet. His advances squash my every protest. I’m forced to feel the sharp slap of their clothes as they fall on top of my face, saying watch, watch this! I’m forced to lay here and watch her climb onto his bed. I’m forced to feel their aching pressure against my back as they stab into it with their legs intertwined. I’m forced to feel their jagged movements against my chest as my heart beats silently against my bruising skin. Am I what gives them rhythm? I’m ashamed of my beating. It’s killing me. Why am I forced to feel what I don’t want, can’t want? Why am I forced to feel the stabbing pain of her feet pattering on my body, as you chase her across the room? I’m crying out to you, but each moan is disregarded as nothing. My ears are burning. I can hear the door slam behind her as she leaves. I am relieved, yet I still watch your face for a reaction. You look around, nervous, until you finally realize where you put me. You look down at me, sighing, and take me up in your haunted hands. I look at you strong, weak, hurting. Is this what’s supposed to happen? Is this how I’m supposed to feel? Is this right? Or am I doing it all wrong? You hold me close to you; it’s my turn now. It’s my time. But somehow, it doesn’t feel as sincere or as exhilarating as it did when you first picked me out of the stars captivating your hungry eyes. I’m just what’s left over, from the fight. I’m just your last option. I’m just a consolation prize. And this is what they call hell. This is paralyzing. This is abuse. But he’ll never know. Because he’s too caught up in all his endeavors, to hear me screaming his name… they may never work out, but at least it whets his appetite until he’s really starving… for the truth.

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