Waking Up [2]

The sun hits my face like a wrecking ball. It takes a moment to open my eyes against the blindness. It takes another moment before I remember why the shade is open to begin with. It takes no time at all to feel the pain come crashing back. The sunlight mocks my sorrow. Wrecking ball. I close my eyes again - willing it all to go away - but, of course, it doesn't. It never does. I peek at the window again. Still sunny. Wrecking ball. I slam my hand down at the windowsill, landing on my phone. I claw at it, preparing to chuck it across the room, before I stop. I have a text message. I flip open the phone, the sun glares off the screen. Wrecking ball. I shift and the blanket slides farther down. It exposes my hips, and the scrappy black lace that wraps so neatly around them, to the harsh sunlight. Wrecking ball. But I flip open the phone and start to read.

It's from you.

The stupid sun seems to dim, and I can see so much more clearly. You were hurting too, you could feel that agony. The thought of you in pain makes me want to tear out at the source with teeth and claws. Angels. Shouldn't. Cry. Though I long to feel the blood of your adversaries dripping down my chin, I know that it isn't a foe we can truly face. Fate never was very kind.

Despite it all, I feel a grin slowly rip its way across my face - cracking through the tear stains of last night. I clutch your hoodie around me, the zipper has grown warm through the night. Breathe In, Exhale. No more tears. Last night is over. The sun can shine all it wants, but a new night will come. A night with a brilliant, shining moon, and angels soaring. I can be stronger than the wrecking ball. I will be stronger.

What wrecking ball?

Falling Asleep [1]

When I collapse to my bed in the darkest part of the night it is with salt stains on my face. I knew it was only gonna get worse. The longer I'm away from you, the longer I'm with you - every moment we spend together hurts me more. It's the rush of icy air from my open window that jerks me out my self-pity and back to the task at hand.

I strip off everything except the black panties I had taken such care to match earlier in the day; they had been of little use to us, what with all the interruptions, anyway. I carefully fold the jeans you gave me. I am assaulted by the memory of your enraptured face when I took them off in front of you. I pluck off my rings, one by one, hideously aware of each empty finger - and the way they had fit so comfortably between yours. I turn to my mirror. The reflected girl that stares vacantly back at me is a shock.

When did I lose weight? Why are the circles under my eyes so dark, so sunken? Why do the scars not heal?

I close my eyes, see nothing but pulsing blackness.

Why do the scars not heal?

I run my fingers across my skin, searching out the blood.

Why do the scars not heal?

I breathe in, shallow and shaking.

Why do the scars not heal?

I exhale, the softest whimper.

Why do the scars not heal?

I throw my mostly naked body to my knees, fingers scrabbling angrily at the carpet. They find something soft, much softer than the coarse floor they should be feeling. It's your hoodie. The one that you said only the special ones got to wear. I pull it on - still shaking, still gasping back a scream.

I don't feel special.

I rise from the floor, biting my lips and finding the familiar taste of my blood. I give in to the subsidence that will send my face into the cool pillows. I curl inside the soft fabric, shakily breathing your scent in the curling fibers of the sweater. The zipper is icy where it lies over my heart. Alone, I gaze out at the moonless sky.

They don't understand.

Your voice broke when you clutched me close and said, "Don't go."

They can't understand.

My heart broke when I did anyway.

They will never understand.

These nights seem so much longer now.

Why do the scars not heal?