I Was Whoever He Wanted Me To Be

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Romain Robe / Unsplash

You called while I was resting my head on his chest once.

All 5’2” of me cradled in his lap, brought back to reality. He let go, stood up, my heart plummeted, growing heavy with each step he took into the other room.

Every place he had just used his hands to light fires to, every inch he had just used his mouth to breathe back life into, now so quickly cold and lacking heartbeat, realizing I’ll never be the ear at the other end hearing him call me baby.

There I was, the villain, the evil witch in the story, mad as hell because the princess even existed.

I could picture your face on that frame, high up on the wall above his desk, the one I would try to avoid each time I made my back center stage, me on top of him. I could picture that face, then, glowing exactly the same with each baby, smiling when he told you goodnight. I could picture him picturing your face.

Mine was simply the best mask at a masquerade ball – eyes hooded with lust, where I so desperately held back my tears, cheeks painted with a flush from his touch, where the thought of you left me faded and blanched.

I’m very sorry,” he said, putting his lips to my forehead, I had to get that.That. We both knew what that was. And that was the thing, even when you came up, I never said your name. But I was good to him, and when he needed ears, I’d let him speak it out loud, I’d soothe him while he sliced into me with each syllable.

You could be who you were. You could feel as you pleased. But I was always on duty, I could never fall out of line, I couldn’t feel hurt where I didn’t have rights. I had to be who he needed me to be.

I had to look pretty for him. Hair done, with enough product in to look spectacular even after he made a tousled mess out of it. You could be who you were and he would still choose you, he could still look at you and call you beautiful.

I’d unironically whore myself up in front of the mirror before seeing him. Hairspray, mascara, not too much blush because he always brought the blood right to my every surface. Lipstick to match the shades he liked leaving my backside in. Perfume in hair, neck, cleavage, thighs, and every other place I knew he’d get close.

I would make myself perfect where you didn’t even have to try.

I was who he wanted me to be. For him, I’d play whatever he needed me to be.

I’d be his friend. I’d give him the girlfriend experience he was or wasn’t getting from you if he needed. I’d play like we were teenagers again, tongues never leaving each other’s mouths, bumping rhythmically with our clothes on. I’d crawl naked on all fours to him and kneel at his feet when he wanted me to “come here.” I’d play submissive. I’d play dominant to fulfill other cravings. I’d play canvas, and I’d let his belt be the brush he used to fervently stroke each crimson shade with.

I was who he wanted me to be.

I’d show up, skirt and no panties, because he wanted easy access. I’d walk up to his place like a call girl, stockings and garter belt, a corset, heels and only a coat. He’d let me in, me all tank top and short shorts because he wanted to look at my legs for the evening.

I would be whatever he wanted me to be.

We both had a penchant for vehement touch. We both liked it rough. I’d take it how he wanted to give it. We liked to give each other teeth, my lips in his, his in mine. But I couldn’t bite down too hard, or else you’d be able to notice him wince when you went in for a kiss. He liked my nails in his back, but I couldn’t dig too hard because you’d see My Name above WAS HERE. Once, I left a scratch trailing from his abs to his hip, I had to make sure I never did something like that again.

Oh the evidence, all the evidence I could have left. I almost didn’t pick up an earring and a pair of panties once. The thought briefly crossed my mind. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t do anything to disrupt his life or bring him troubles or ache. I cared about him. I wanted him happy. So I was whoever he needed me to be.

I gave him whatever he wanted. I’d take whatever he would give. I’d obey the unspoken rules. I just wanted to make him happy.

You see, I was whoever he needed me to be. A fantasy.

You were everything he wanted and needed.

I was only who he wanted and needed me to be.

You were someone he would never leave.

I was whatever he wanted me to be.

He never wanted me to be his. TC mark

Natalia Vela

poet and bruja. still checking books out from your local library.

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You look back and you just feel stupid.
You can’t forgive yourself for falling
or believing all the lies.
You reread every text.
You relive every memory.
And it all starts making sense —
he never wanted love.
He only wanted attention.
He only wanted validation.

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