My ‘love’,
10 months' worth of empty promises has spiralled into a pit of distrust that burns my lungs with each breath I draw.
You have shattered my trust with your secrecy and your lust.
My body is a temple which I permitted you to enter, but all you did was merge your venom.
You poisoned me.
Your words wrapped around my ears in the most tantalising of ways, persuading me to walk on the border of heaven and hell.
You baptised me head first in the musty waters of deceit, holding my hands. I thought your grip was love. It was control.
I have lost myself in you; my eyes were shrouded by your excuses, and my brain rang with your sorry’s, which you sang like praise on a Sunday.
Amen.
A man.
It wasn't praise. It was love-bombing, right from the beginning to the end.
I trusted you and you misused it, making sure you will be the first and last person I bestow it upon.
Oh, how sweet a lie can be when told on a winter's eve. The hot air emerged from your lips, intoxicating my brain with hormones mimicking happiness.
The warmth of your breath on my cheek made me feel alive, while frostbite nibbled on the rest of my body.
One moment you are a golden retriever, lolling your head, staring up at me with eyes that say “I need you”, next, you are beside me in bed, telling me why you saved a scandalous photo of me on your phone that was designed to disappear as soon as your eyes had finished salivating over it.
“My desire burnt uncontrollably, that's why I saved it.”
Lie.
“I wasn't going to show anyone, I just wanted to keep it.”
Excuse.
“It stirred up a feeling that had long been dormant within me.”
You gave me five of your reasons. Five of your excuses.
I weep silently, feeling my body convulse and my heart ache as you lie beside me trying to justify your actions. Lie.
You hate the thought of being called a liar, yet to my face, you misplace truths that did not need to be hidden.
Four years my senior, yet life seems not to have taught you the value of trust and the weight of betrayal.
You betrayed me.
You signed your fate when you stole that photo, one of my womanhood and my insecurities.
You have a sister. I am 2 years her senior. When confronted with the question, “How would you feel if someone hid an incriminating photo of your sister away in a folder on his phone without her consent?”, you shifted uncomfortably in your seat.
Yet it wasn't a seat. It was a bed. A bed which I laid with you mere moments before. A sacred place where you whispered your love for me between laboured breaths. The bed where you have now seen me at both my worst and my best.
You came into my life mere weeks before spring, and somehow you have managed to sweep me away on a whirlwind Romance; I, a lowly London girl and you, an exotically intoxicating mix of contrasting countries.
In the months that you tricked me into loving you, you have made me feel more gloom than joy, more despair than excitement, more wishful than grateful.
Last year, My Summer Lover granted me confidence and the ability to accurately estimate the value of my self-worth.
Your father is an architect by trade. It makes sense that you had the tools to chip away at what had been newly built.
You have the ability to play prey and make me feel like I'm your predator.
Before we met, I was pure enough to wear a white dress on the day I would wed. Now, I am too impure to bear the title of a girl. Although my age may allow for it, as it is still a number which ends in teen, you persuaded me to take a bite of the snake's apple, swallowing my doubts.
I live with my decision, and I tell myself I'm grateful that I made it. I am thankful that I made it with the right person.
Even I can't delude my own thoughts to believe my sorrows were a cheerful decision.
I feel robbed.
You gorged on my rich honeysuckle, your mouth watered greedily as you showered yourself with my youth.
My body became a decrepit temple which I covered up with fear of seeming imperfect. You towered over me telling me how amazing I am, how amazing I feel, how I'm yours.
You kept my insecurities at bay.
Until today.
You stole my likeness in a digital form, blurting out excuses before resigning with a muttered apology. I see what I am worth to you now.
I see me through your eyes. I don't see anything.
That photo may not have included my face, but it was still me. I know it's me.
I see me.
You don't, but I see me.
You have existed on this earthly plain for almost a quarter of a century. You have lived, you have loved, you have hated, you have lost.
I do not hold any of the experience you have gained.
I am held back by subtle rules which you keep in place. The seven continents yearn for me to walk them, yet I am not permitted to travel unless I purchase your permission?
I need your permission to live?
You claim to respect me.
You don't even respect the idea of me.
If 1000 bullets or 1 atomic bomb were unleashed upon one small town, which would have the greatest effect?
Your 1000 murmured “sorry’s” do not compare to the actions of an apology.
Your mouth spouts nothing but words that trickle out in steady rivers. You collect my soul like a token in your stride, like how you collected my innocence. The same way you collected that photo of me.
You do it in the cover of darkness, alone so that only you may live to know your crimes.
I will no longer allow you to be my jailer.
This bird wants out of her cage. She has barely left the nest and you have already clipped her wings.
You have turned her into a fallen angel so that I may walk beside all of your deadly sins.
