Torture
I sit on the floor, hugging my legs, forehead resting against my knees. This place is supposed to be the deepest part of me. The core of my being. The sanctuary of my heart. My soul room. It is desperately empty and my sobs echo against the walls and the ceiling, thin surfaces of crackled plaster. I locked myself here of my own free will. I shut myself from the world with the mad wish that this room would collapse, crushing me under its weight. But it holds on, no matter how much of strength I put in my fists when they collide with the walls.
I locked myself, yet I'm trapped. Of course, I could attempt to escape, but there's nowhere to run to. No matter the distance I would cover, in the end, I would be led back by a gentle, yet possessive hand. I would be placed on fancies brought to the room during my absence. Like a trophy. A masterpiece in the middle of a cheap art gallery. I hate those objects. They don't belong to me and feel foreign. But what I hate most is the reason they were brought here in the first place. I never asked for these things. I don't want to be kept in a golden cage. I don't want to feel precious.
I want to be left alone. I want to stop having to hide inside my heart because even this place isn't mine alone anymore. I feel dirty. Like I've been raped and soiled to the core.
And yet…
I raise my head as I hear a sound. My eyes are fixed on the lock maintaining the faded white door shut. The lock seems out of place, as it is made of gold and silver. It keeps getting more elaborate and complex with time, trying to hold the intruder at bay. The mechanism twitches, as does my heart. I watch, fascinated, hoping than this time, it would hold. Yet, it is forced open after a pitiful fight. But if this place really is a reflection of me…
Maybe I'm allowing you in. Yet, I don't want you here.
My forehead hits my knees again as the door opens slowly, without a sound. You step inside like you own the place; I refuse to believe you do. Your footsteps are awfully silent, yet I can feel every one of them. You walk just past me and stop. You allow me a short respite before kneeling behind me. I shiver as your skin feels scalding hot against mine. I want to scream, I want to yell. My mouth remains shut. I'm afraid it might tell you lies, I'm scared I might believe them. Your hands seize my wrists and softly guide my arms down against my sides. I then feel your fingers on my chin as you lift my head up. Push your nails in. Your lips kiss my neck. Bite me.
"I'm sorry. I made you cry again," you whisper gently as you hold me against your chest. I could escape easily if I wanted to.
If I wanted to.
"You shouldn't cry." Your tongue licks my tears away. Rather than soothing me, it makes me shed more tears that you gulp down as if they were the sweetest of nectars. "I want to make you happy." I sob pathetically as I lie defenselessly in your embrace. I can't fight back because there wasn't any violence involved to begin with. You run your hand through my hair and lick my earlobe.
"I love you."
Lies! Say you hate me! Say I'm pathetic! Say I don't deserve to live!
Your arm is slipping under my knees. You lift me off the floor. I hide my closed eyes against your shoulder; I don't want to see your face. You carry me to a bed – another fancy you brought here – laying me on the silk covers. You gaze down at me lovingly like I'm the most beautiful person you've ever laid your eyes on. My cheeks feel warm, my stomach heaves. Your mouth claims my lips and I feel your body weighing on mine.
Rape me.
You kiss me lazily, moving your lips against mine, taking your time before prying them open gently. My hands grip your shirt, but I can't find the strength to push you away. I whine. You pull back. "I'm sorry," you whisper, stroking my cheek. "I don't want to force you." I tilt my head up and hate myself for doing this.
Hurt me, break me, treat me like dirt. Do something to make me hate you.
Because I can't help loving you when you're like this.