As the door slams, harshly brushing against my knee, I let out a soft cry. Your voice apologizes intensely, but your eyes tell me that you acquired some type of power in performing the action. You try to pull me into a tight embrace, but my body becomes repulsed by the idea of loving you. I tell you to get off of me, which is met by a roaring scream and followed by yet another door slammed.
You claim you weren’t angry, but that you were just upset. You claim you didn’t yell, but that you just raised your voice. Aren’t those phrases one in the same? I become aware that I’m watering a dead flower, maybe even repeating myself as a broken record does.
My wisdom becomes a shallow creek not deep enough to sustain life, and not shallow enough to walk over. “Love me, please.” “Don’t hurt me, please.” “Let me live, please.” My words are hitting a brick wall. No matter how many times I beg to be loved and plead for you to keep me safe from harm, it will never be locked in by a promise.
It will always be followed by a hollow statement that will break with any slight movement of the wind. In my dreams, I find myself walking on a thin layer of ice high above the dense ground. It won’t matter how powerful my body movements are, because it will still crack and break with each breath I take.
Inevitably, I will fall through the cracks and await a violent landing into a pile of thorns. I can never be safe around you, because I know you will rearrange the thorns buried within my skin until the finished product brings you joy.
I will never feel loved, at least not with you. Trust will be a burden to provide to you. I let you meet my family, sleep in my home, eat the food I prepared, and most importantly, I let you be. All of the times I became cautious of your capabilities, the same look of domination and power washed over your dull blue eyes.
This unpredictable love was the fear driven motivation that uplifted my standards before I knew myself as disposable. After a replica of you or a replica of death showed me the mournful tragedies of exploitation, I would drag my standards down to the self instigated roots of grief with me.
Suddenly, the wind pattern shifts, pushing you far away from me. I dig out the thorns that you manipulated into my cold skin, letting them fly away with the vigorous breeze.
When I made my way up to the shattered bridge of thin ice, the sun came out of hiding, turning the cracked walkway into a puddle of fallen water. Restricting me from trying to fix what according to you, I broke. I jump off the edge, falling along with the cold drops of water. Your presence surrenders the moment that I realized I chose death over life, as any life with you in it, is not a life worth living.