Disclaimer: This piece of prose is fiction. Although it is based in reality, it is not based on something that directly happened to me. Also, I should mention that this may be triggering for some because it deals with a theme of abuse.
To The Guy Who Shouldn’t Have Been Born on Valentine’s Day:
You were tall — a steady machine with a height of six-foot-four or so. And she was slim because that was how you liked her. Some days she was the apple you chose to sink your teeth into, leaving your spit on her soft skin and your touch down to the core. But other days she was nothing but water. She was stunningly beautiful, but she was empty.
At first, there were only tears. Then there were snaps of judgement without snaps of bone. And then there were bruises. Thumbprints appeared as your claim to her skin, and little by little, she became your blueprint. Smile lines were replaced by guidelines, and those guidelines were replaced by complacency. Complacency soon became transparency until she was less than an outline and you were everything inside of her.
All the while I was paralyzed. Every closed door was a weapon, and my fear was their ally. To turn that knob would accept the certainty of pain. To turn that knob would be a statement.
And she really loved you. She did. I know because I heard the cries at three in the morning when she begged you to love her back. I know because she tore herself apart to let you feel whole. She was broken because that was how you liked her. She was silent because she wanted to fix you.
I watched it all. I watched each fiber of her being as it was separated into piles of yes and no; I felt her eyes darken and her hair wilt with the changing seasons. I heard the reverberated murmurs of you and only you from her bones and through her teeth.
I wish you were just The Guy Who Shouldn’t Have Been Born on Valentine’s Day to me. Instead, you’re thrown chairs and emptied threats and too many tethered days spent pacing. You’re the closed doors and watered-down glances and the harrowed hospital lights. To her, you’re the one that is gone forever. But you’re always there. On her wrists, her tongue, etched into the deepest crevices of her vitality.
You really shouldn’t have been born on Valentine’s Day. But you were.