anjle

so many stories never get told. are never listened to, never commiserated with, never let loose from blood-curdled throats. if you've ever fallen in love with a monster who's good at their job, you'll understand the extreme level of precision involved. a person diffusing a bomb on a shaky high wire over a gorge has nothing on you. a razor's edge is nothing to be shied away from, because you're not a coward. that sharpened edge is something to be caressed with bare fingertips, licked like an ice cream cone, navigated upon deftly like a bear on a ball at the circus. only you don't need a silly pointed hat in order to be irrevocably humiliated. she'll pull at all your most tender stitches, then tear you in half for crying. she'll delight in telling you she prefers white women with red hair like her ex whose photos hang in the bedroom where she fucks you, when your skin is brown and your hair is the color of her forked tongue. you've never seen her as gleeful as when she tells you she never loved you, like the last four years have lead her to the delicious crescendo of this very moment. she makes you feel like a backyard dog on a short leash in the heat and you lap up her venom like it's cool water. she makes you into a sad little piece of tough meat and here, almost fifteen years and a lot of wine later, your bed sores of her still aren't healed. you're still tender to the touch from that sweet but stinging love but not love you had with her. she's a phantom limb. a few of them are. the worst ones especially, and somehow you know all these hands will be with you until the end.