“Baby.” My resolve dies with my fluttering pulse. That single despised word jabs through the weak chink in the feeble armor I wore and pierces straight into my fragile heart. He didn’t really need more persuasion than that. He knows he has me backed into a corner, and I know it too.
“I’m sorry. I love you and I want to be with you.” The same lies he used to capture me the very first time; bound as his compliant prisoner – yet there is no despair; not now, not yet. I can’t even muster any of the hatred I’ve begun to feel so passionately for him as he looks at me with his beseeching eyes; there isn’t any room to feel anything else but tenderness. My excuses flee and desert me. I can almost hear the trap springing and I'm throwing myself into it under my own free-will.
Anyone would be justified in calling me a fool. The feelings are often pretenses, but the wounds are real. You make a mistake. You fall. You die. This is a conflict of love and war in synchronicity; and I've stumbled into many fatal errors already.
It’s always like this when we are together. He would beg, unawares, with his charm, and I would admit defeat and yield most willingly to the temptation. To give myself up for a brief glimpse of heaven with him is so easy, so right. So wrong.
When you already know someone is making a casualty out of your very soul, yet still you choose to blindly fight and grasp and hold on with more than your life, what should you do then?
I make one last feeble attempt at reason. "You’re not making any sense. It is irrational and you are over-reacting again," he says.
His confidence and arrogance sets me alight unlike anything else he could've said.
Later, he is able to take full advantage as he roughly takes kisses from me, with the excuse of attempting to be seductive and romantic, undressing me all the while. No foreplay, and usually I hear, and feel, some part of my vagina rip as I respond. He never falters in knowing instinctively how to toy with me in such a precise way.
["Don’t worry about it.”]
He’s always been rough with me, something I’ve learned to deal with and have even grown slightly accustomed to, at times even numb to; but afterwards when he rolls away from my embrace like this and I watch the frail vulnerability of childish sleep upon his face; this is when I am most in danger of losing the constant battle. I teeter on the brink of that inferno and, as always, I get the suicidal urge to hurl myself into the midst of the beckoning fires.
It wouldn’t be painful, to be razed and scorched in the most pleasant of slow burns as his. Until he abandons me in the morning to do as he pleases, only then would the fires claim me and set my lost soul ablaze hotter than the innermost rings of hell itself.
Gently, I pull my arms away, retreating before it is too late and I really did surrender. Leaving this time was much more difficult than the last, and the next will be harder still. Each time I indulge in this sweet madness it becomes more unbearable to stop.
He has proven to be an addiction that I know will end me, being fatally poisonous. I gather my clothes and dress, while also at the same time gathering my flimsy defenses, and I leave, shutting the door soundlessly behind me.
Now, with him gone and having this ability to finally reflect on everything from the start, to think about what I want and need without worrying or being afraid of the ending or of being interrupted, a series of mixed emotions evade my thoughts as I continue this solemn epitaph of my emotional being:
The first to gallop to my rescue is guilt, forever the loyal soldier. Guilt at doing this to myself; I probably don’t deserve this, whatever my flaws. Guilt upon my conscience for the wrongness of it all. If only I was strong enough to let him go.
The scant melancholy is immediately refuted, leaking through my reasoned thoughts, with a malicious, venomous whisper laced with cruelty. Maybe he’ll leave. If he truly understood why this won’t work out. He would just go and leave me the fuck alone. Isn’t that what I want? Would that not solve our problems? If only I was strong enough to let him go. His love is wounding me.
Yet I fear that we both have the losing hand in this deadly game. None will be victorious, in the end. My heart is resigned as it bleeds and spills its lifeblood for he and I both: a sacrifice to false gods who laugh at this mere mortal’s futility.
Now come the practiced, marching squads of oppressive sorrow and pity and flaming anger at him, but more so at myself, for creating this situation, for being willing, for my naïveté, for him. These harsh regiments of relentless, crippling, wrenching, vengeful pain batter me, but is no less than what I deserve. For though it’s wrong, and for all the wounds he inflicts on my peace of mind, nothing can keep me away.
It’s this helplessness that stays with me, faithful as an old veteran, for I can’t hate him any more than I can love him. He isn’t “mine” to feel anything, neither love nor hate, for. I’m balancing ever so precariously over a knife-edge, from which at any moment, I fear I would surely fall and cast myself to damned oblivion. A mortal plunge from which there would be no hope of recovery. It would be a simultaneous mix of sheer bliss and shrieking agony.
Should I let go of the ledge?
Struggling upstream against the persistent currents of an emotional kaleidoscope with one part of myself, and bathing in the deceptively calm and blissful pool of our after-glow with one another, I try to sleep, fitfully, waking often, with tear tracks scarring my face and anguished red welts scarring my soul.
Divorce is the only cure for this madness.
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