Blade

The first time I saw that knife was probably on a table. Then it was the time I asked you to cut my clothes off and make violent love on the coffee table.

and it lingered around your condo, moving from table to table and spot to spot.

you asked me to play a drinking game, as I saw the ominous mix in the fridge, it looked like sloshy brown water in a milk jug. really it was a rummy vegan tea latte mixed like magic for some evil spell. It frightened me but the game began, and we had fun, laughing and trying as we began to get lost inside ourselves and you dragged me to that pit which you loathed (and I do not resent you for it). I tried to stop playing, said I wanted to stop drinking, but the game must go on. The magic unconscious insisted on it. For if I was going to live here, I really ought to know, to see, the reason and stories of the scars on your forearm, especially as I spend so much time attempting to soothe and heal them, promising that you never will have to face them alone.

You asked me what would happen if you cut yourself in front of me. And I said I wasn't sure, and I drifted in and out awareness. Then you were standing in front of me, that blade in hand, that knife that has teased my flesh but never penetrated it; the one I speculated about sharing with you. I saw three smooth cuts and blood. And I can't say anymore about it. I didn't care. I didn't how we got to the point, what mattered was we were here, and I stepped up, reacting in a way that friends you've bought off never have; taking the knife from your hand and cutting my own tensor in half to wrap it around you. I wasn't mad yet, but I feel it now it all my foot steps, every creaking footstep; you promised never to take me to that place again, especially by force like that, with the subtleties of drinking.

I hated you for your bravely and weakness in doing what I could never do. I just wanted to fall asleep and wake up like it never happened. You wrote in your journal that in a way you raped me, as I did not consent to be dragged to that place or see that place or witness your blood on the floor and my body as I cleaned it up; luckily there wasn't much, it was your artform.

I'm afraid to talk about it because I'm afraid people will tell me I should leave you. But I know I am just as capable.

God fuck damnit I want to stay.

I won't let you slip away.