An old journal entry I found…


So this is what it feels like to remember. To have every detail etched into you, like frosted glass. the tinkling of rain on the window, the darkness swallowing us; he and I. the warmth of his body next to me. He smelled like hot cotton that had been in the sun for hours, like sweat, and heat, and sex. What is it they say, hate the game, not the player? How do you do that? There’s a faint red glow cast out over the room: 4:26 AM, the numbers hold me mesmerized. I lay there, my vision fixed to that damn alarm clock. My head moving with the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. I wish I could stop time forever…locked in one moment…this moment. I press my nose, my chin, into his skin, into the smell I’ve come to know so vividly.

My finger traces a mole on his stomach. I rest my hand on his shoulder and kiss his collarbone. He barely stirs. My leg is wrapped around him, and his head is resting gently in the fold of my arm. The air is thick, muggy and humid with the rain. When he whispers in my ear his voice is smoothe, smoothe like the rum. Like the captain and coke, he just pushed into my hand, it’s my favorite drink. I sip for a long time and lick my lips. He’s lying there watching me with a half-smile playing across his mouth. He kisses me and I feel my cheeks burn. “Take me,” my whisper is barely audible. No man has ever made me blush. He is a man…I repeat this over and over again to myself.

This feels like some fantasy, some lifetime move and I’m the star.

His eyes are burning, the flames lick my body. I’m on fire now. This time when he kisses me there are sparks. Not imaginary ones, real ones. Red and yellow and orange. Like a burst of sunlight, and there’s a bead of sweat just above his brow. Somehow, even that seems amazing to me. We both collapse, exhausted but happy. He closes his eyes and when I lie down next to him on the other side of the bed, I face away, staring at the wall…tears burning under my eyelids. I barely breathe.

I will not break down, not here, not now…

I refuse to let him win and yet I feel his hand heavily on my shoulder. Within seconds we’re face to face. His soft hazel eyes full of the cold reality, the truth I refuse to accept soon. I can feel the cold seeping into my veins, invading my very soul.

“I love you, and I don’t want to, because I know you’ll never love me…”

I choke, barely even whispering these harsh words. Suddenly, I’m not beautiful anymore. My skin doesn’t seem so smooth, my eyes are not so green now, and my hair not so dark and soft. There is no curve to my hips and I see myself as something discarded, that he will never want. I shiver and tremble as he holds me tighter, trying to speak; I press my fingers over his mouth. I love his mouth. “Shhhh,” I cry it,

“It’s bad enough to know the truth in my own mind, I don’t need to hear it from you.”

Categories: Anxiety, Creative Writing, Depression, Grief, Love, Mental Health, PTSD, Writing

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