...

09.09.09

I'm scared to tell you how much I don't love you. While the sun shines on my face, the rain still pours in my heart. I don't dance in the rain, in fact, I don't dance at all. My heart is leaking and my veins are a delicate lace which are becoming permanently stained.
You saw the fresh cuts on my hips. You also saw the scars. You kept your mouth clamped shut and faked blindness. I know that you know my problem is real; I'm not an exhibitionist. Those red, blunt cuts stay hidden under my jeans, under my panties... those garments you so readily remove without my approval.
I know it's not rape, but it's guilt, which almost feels the same. You ask again and again until there aren't any more "no"'s left in my mouth. When I vomit out the word "okay", you're satisfied, even though you know what I really mean. It's not okay. But you plunge on.
It still hurts. I can feel my pulse between my legs. You feel stuck because I'm dry as a bone. I don't want this. I don't want you. Yet it hurts more in my chest, beneath my ribs; that fragile cage... so easy to break. But I'll silence my sobs. I'll suck it up for the next five minutes.
Then it's over. You're sweaty, I'm trembling. You feel satisfied, I feel nothing. That's the only strong part about me; the sex doesn't change me. You don't change me. But I can't be that strong... because I can't change, even for myself.