Every day, I feel like I am dead

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I walk around and there is something heavy within me, something rotten. It is cavernous. Black, sharp, and rotting, rotting.
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In my mind, I distort your face. I rearrange the pretty pieces to match your true ugliness; I rip off the nose and put it where the eye should be. I drag an ear down and stuff it into your red mouth. You make me sick.

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As children, we’re fed stories about monogamy, everlasting love, and romance.

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They tell us that we’re going to fall in love and it’s going to be perfect. Life is about searching for your other half, and when two halves become whole it is magic.

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They forgot to talk about the rest of us. They didn’t tell me you would paint me black and blue. They didn’t tell me you would make me hate myself.

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When I open my mouth to speak, I feel fear. Will I tell someone, once and for all? The words sit right on the edge of my lips and could come tumbling out in an instant. But I bury this secret deep because I know that just the idea is upsetting to others. How would they be able to handle the truth?

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Before, I would look in the mirror and see what I wanted to be. I felt hope. One day, I was going to be something great. But then you called me your baby and dug your fingernails into my skin. In your own way, you told me beauty was suffering, and to you I was most beautiful when I was on my knees.

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Sometimes I imagine myself falling into a bed of flowers. The earth blankets me, and for once the silence is comforting. Here, I cannot recall the sound of your voice, harsh in the night time.  All my scars have vanished, and I am at peace.

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But it doesn’t last. Harmony is fleeting. Eventually, I remember. And I know I will never be my old self again, because I will never forget that even when I was crying, you didn’t stop.