You were licking your lips when you opened the door.
It was a thing you were unaware of and you did often when you looked at me. It was almost a reflex, you’d put eyes on me, lick them, bite your lower lip unwittingly. I could’ve enjoyed teasing you about it, but I never pointed it out because it was one of my most favorite sights. It was a feeling I lived for that I selfishly wanted to keep and bottle up. It was one of the very few things you could actually give me, something you couldn’t deny me of, something she couldn’t take from me. It was something that belonged to me. That look, that tongue, those teeth when you took me in – that was all mine.
There we were. On your living room floor. During that period somehow we always ended up there.
My skirt hiked up above my waist, my blouse a tiny little mound under my bra on the couch above us. You were taking a sip of wine and asking me if I wanted some. I nodded. Your hand slowly curling around my throat and applying pressure, you put your forehead to mine and said, “Tell me. Yes, what?”
You licked your lips in that way you did, picked up the glass for another sip and leaned in, poured it into my mouth with your mouth. And I took it in, swallowed it thirstily, swallowed it like water, like sustenance.
I remember laying there, that leather belt around my wrists so tight, rendering me immobile, unable to escape, and thinking I could stay tied that way forever.
There was no need for belts, scarves, or ties, you had tied yourself around my heart without chains. It didn’t matter that the only things you could give me were bruises on my backside from your hand or your belt coming down me, little red imprints from your teeth, a few hours in the dark, and an ache every time from where you had been and from having to say goodbye.
You touched me with this kind of ownership over my body, but when I’d crawl on all fours to let you do all those things to me, I was owning you. You knew it and you loved it. That’s the way it always with us. Full submission. Full dominance. Total power exchange back and forth, again and again. It was only a matter of time before you were on your knees staring between my thighs and begging me for a taste.
The way we fucked was utterly consuming.
So would have been the way we loved.
We were the epitome of passion come to life in a violent storm.
It was beautiful. It was reckless.
Each time I ended up in your arms I knew it would only fuck me up, only feed my desire for something I couldn’t have, that it would only make me love you more. And I did, I loved you so much. I loved you without logic, without any reason to, I didn’t even know why. Maybe because there’s no room for love without lust for me.
We were laying there spent. I was covered in your sweat. I had never seen so much sweat. It took us two whole songs to catch our breath. You moved to your side to face me and did that thing you always did with your lips.
You were stroking my hair and said, “Look at me.”
I was afraid to because I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide the hurricane behind my eyes. I was laying there in complete bliss and already holding back tears because I knew how it went. I didn’t have much time left with you. But I could never deny you of anything, so I let my eyes meet yours.
“I love you, Nat. You know that. Always will. You know I love you, right?”
And maybe you did, but just not enough.
I believed you back then. I thought because love wasn’t black or white that it didn’t have to be conventional or put into a box. I thought we were different, but still special.
Now, I know better.
I think maybe you were more in love with my body and the things it could do, than you were with me. Maybe I was more in love with the sound of a door slamming, keeping true to my masochist self, framing your steps each time you left. Photographing the little marks from your vehement touch and hanging them. Wearing your fingerprints like my favorite dress.
You never learned how to be monogamous and I never learned how to stop wanting what wasn’t good for me. There I was, the fantasy you could play out in reality when you found yourself wanting to crawl out of the bed you shared with monotony. There you were, the shiniest, prettiest little blade I ever did see. My flesh willing to put itself to good use. My throat open and ready.
You said I love you, but what you meant was I love having something to play with and you feel too good. It’s funny how you loved me the most while inside me. But, there’s no victim here, I suppose I’ve always had a penchant for being used.
The thing besides fucking or lying we were always best at is ending again and again. You coming back and making your presence known like a ghost. Haunting me, holding me down, digging into my bones. My skin still searing since your hands last roamed through me, still welcoming your matchstick fingers.
I wouldn’t let you touch me now. I’ve been dancing in the rain, welcoming water to cover me in every place I now wish you had not touched. First, I chose to stay away because I was always weak for you. Now, I’m staying away because you’re powerless.
I saw a picture of you the other day and I felt desensitized. I felt empty. I felt nothing. I dreamed so many times I’d hear you at my door telling me you chose me, telling me you’re sorry, saying something like “I want to be with you. I’m sorry it took me so long. Please take my hand.” And if today I heard you knocking, I wouldn’t.
I no longer feel the things I felt for you.
I should’ve known that last night I left your house and looked up at the sky. The moon wasn’t out for us.
It never was.