L'amant

Same old story, newly found journal entry

I remember how in is sleep he held on to me like a parent holding on to their newborn child. I remember. His warm biceps holding the air out of my lungs. I remember how he would get aroused whenever I would make the mistake of moving too much against him.

He held me and I let his arms replace the ones of my father and his love replace the love of my mother. I needed him to fill the dirt hole of a forgotten daughter, make me worth something, anything.

In between our kisses are the gestures of a parental figure.

He caresses me, I comb my fingers through his hair, like abandoned dogs, we lick each other.

Sometimes he plays the mother and sometimes I play the father. We take turns as the child to allow ourselves the freedom of innocence and the sweetness of unconditional love.

But like his father, he doesn’t cry, doesn’t ask twice and when he doesn’t receive, he hits, and I let him, I let him hit me because maybe each hit brings him closer to peace and I tell myself each time that this will be his last, that he simply needs to let it out, that he needs me to let out his anger, that without me he wouldn’t have anyone to hit other than himself. I will accept the blood as long as it makes him smile. I will play the mother sacrificing herself for her child. I’ve harmed myself with a blade countless times and I do not wish it on anyone. He can hit me instead. He can rape me if that will make him happy.

And my tears convince me that the bruises will heal the anger trapped in his fingers and give my life purpose.