Exit Wounds

It’s been six months. Some parts are blurry, like my vision more often than not. And some parts—they’re painfully sharp. These parts, these moments, I hone them like a blade. I sharpened them until they are razor sharp, so sharp that it takes my breath away. Then I dig in with them. Repeatedly. Until the sharpness becomes dull, until I feel nothing again. I use everything you said against myself. Good, bad, real, imaginary, thoughts I have concocted, I let you do the damage to the inside that you never intended.

But—you did. You intended this. I knew it was coming, and so did you. Equal parts your fault and mine. Some days, I blame myself completely, some days I am filled with such hatred and disgust. I never considered myself to be a beast that actually was capable of hating someone. But, on those days, if you were on fire I am certain that I wouldn’t even look in your direction.
You violated me. Not in the way that every one is certainly thinking, and not the way you claimed you did. Yes, you used me, I know that. But that’s what the kind of person you are. And I was certainly fine with that. I was not fine with the way to forced yourself into my thoughts, the things you told me. You had me as a plaything with minimal effort, so why did you do all the other things?
One might say it’s because you’re a monster, a terrible person. You have flaws, flaws that I never thought would be used against me, but ultimately were.  You’re not a monster, I reserve that word for true evil in this world. The betrayal stings the most, causes the biggest wound. And I feed that wound, salt it, pry it open and cause it to bleed every morning, several times a day.
When I broke down, and attempted to kill myself, I hid that from you. I would never allow anyone to think that I would use my precarious placement against them—or even that I was in the situation that I was. I am so good at concealing, so good at showing people only what I want them to see, exceptional at being this monument of strength and rationality, that any idea against that is something I fear. But I told you. And you asked me to see that ugly, treacherous scar on my wrist, and you looked at it. Not a word fell from your lips, instead you brought my wrist to them, and placed three kisses to the scar. That moment of touch haunts me more than any of the others. Not the forehead kisses, the feeling of your fingers digging into my skin, your mouth on more intimate places that my wrist does as much damage.
It’s been three months. Three months since you called me, drew me out of a sleepy haze, to say words that would cause this much betrayal. I wonder, however, if all the words were betrayal. All the words from over the last years, were our friendship was cultivated it—so why is the last six months so much more painful? I have no answer; the only thing I can comment on is that I hardly feel the pain any more.
Instead, I merely wish for the day when I don’t think about this battle, or hone that blade.