You're Sick.

Why do pictures of your hideous face soften my heart? Why do the scars made from your thirsty hands make me smile? How come the memories of the shouting, and the bruises, and lies make me want you back? I know you love me. I know you love me in a sick, self-loathing, uncontrollable way. I know you'd fly into your episodes of psychotic anger and threaten me, and hold me down and do as you pleased to me until I break, choking on my tears and blood from biting my tongue. Then, later, I'd get to watch you, curled up, no longer the big strong man with a mission you were moments before. I'd get to watch you crying, WEEPING, clawing at your face telling me you'll kill yourself for hurting me again. I know I'd walk through the town, struggling, full of crippling shame, with words like "rape" and "insanity" being whispered around me. I know it would be a cycle of hate, and fear, and torture, with tiny moments of passion and peace between the crashes of inhuman sickness.
Why do I miss you? I'm just as sick as you.
mirrorscantlie mirrorscantlie
18-21, F
Jan 17, 2013