The Burn
The Burn:
“Can I see your journal?� he asks.
“No� I reply.
“Why not?� He demands, “What don’t you want me to see?� He sits back in an imitation of relaxation, but the subtly condescending dimple in his left cheek is a warning siren. With each twitch of his lip, it deepens, and I wonder how such a small indentation can create such a vacuumous silence.
My inner monologue is a scathing rat scratching at the backs of my eyeballs, but I’m only brave inside the safety of my skull, so I say;
“You just can’t.�
“What if I just take it from you? What if I don’t give you a choice?� He murmurs quietly, as if I will be seduced by a purr. “You haven’t yet discovered what I’m fully capable of.�
His words are a caress, a gesture implementing the intimacy of a cheese grater in action.
My limbs stiffen against him as my blood frosts into glass crystals against the membrane of my veins and my fingertips compress, leaving indentations on the journals cover. His eyes linger, caressing my visage as one would apply a poultice of blistering wax.
He leans forward and kisses me. He doesn’t kiss me all that often. Mostly he breathes on my face; his jaw slack; a gasping fish pressed against my cheek. His hands slip around my waist and I collapse out of my chair into his arms on the floor. I feel him pull off my last layer with a tugging motion, it’s an odd sensation, like peeling off a gummy price tag, I’m sure there are little sticky bits left behind.
Damn these nights,
Of self-medicated torturous blunder
Finding yourself beneath this weight again,
As if turning on the faucet behind your eyes will save you from him..
Too late.
This one penetrated deep,
Like an ill timed burn.