THE GRAVE YOU MADE OF ME
Do you know what it’s like to touch other men and feel nothing? To have hands on my skin and laughter in my ears and still — still — ache for the ghost of you?
The men who stayed, who gave, who loved me — I couldn't feel them. Because you taught my body that wanting was supposed to feel like dying.
Everyone tells me I dodged a bullet. No. I took the bullet. It tore through my spirit and lodged itself in the marrow of who I used to be. And every day since, I have been learning how to walk around it, pretending it isn't still inside me, still poisoning everything good.
I could accept every ugly truth — that you never loved me, that you played me, that you saw me as nothing but a fleeting thrill — I could accept it all.
And still, this ache would not leave. You made me feel wanted once. That’s all it took. You carved your initials into the raw meat of my existence.
And now when men touch me, they touch a corpse. A shrine to you
Sif noire