The slut







Slut. He spat the word a nine inch nail. His mother laughed, a crone trapped in the paradise of her own lost youth. I had never loved this man, he had kind eyes, i had never loved this man, the soft brown of warm chocolate, the deep hue of ebony skin, the pulse of a throbbing mouth, the height that came with a shadowed beauty. And yet despite ticking the boxes we mentally tick, an arithmetic of thoughts i had never loved this man, because i was unable to love myself. Life stabbed and clawed at me, jerking like an erection eager to explode, a promise ready to collide with goals lined up like bicycle cones, and yet i never loved this man. I hated him now. I hated him because i had seen him, because he was no longer beautiful or mystifying, their were nosecrets in his eyes, just orbs that lit like lava, and words that vomitted through the mouth. You grow a thick skin with emotional abusers, maybe it was my loneliness that made me stay. The fear of being on an Island with nothing but spiked thoughts, the curse of admitting a plague which had besieged the simple ease of my life. He was a beautiful, strange foundling, with a passion for peppery drinks, and women who made little conversation. Sadly in his mind there were so many diamond labels, slut whore, slag, i wondered why he hated women so, why he couldnt forgive himself for all his wrong choices, why his words crushed me to the ground like a sledgehammer, then once again i was gold. Robert Mccaul never hit me, i was too ugly in the eyes of those he loved to physically hit, but he defeminised me in the most clever ways. Using an invisible measuring tool, a ghost picture to compare me to a woman i had never been and could never be. I cried outside when i took the bins out, pieces of glass dangling from my wrist, wondering why i was such an unlovable thing. I tasted sodium in my mouth, whilst each day becoming a version of myself the mirror simply nodded at with pity. Abuse is a hollow feeling, at first. Then it becomes quiz night, and your second guessing everythung thats wrong with you. The tears seemed to anger him, along with the conversation. For i was his puppet, and wooden things dont cry, yet i was an onion, in a life that smiled too many liars, and when i think i wish i had taken my sandalled feet that cool september and simply kept walking. As though it was desert storm and i had to get to safety, because i learned there is nothing more dangerous than the smile of a man, with a poker face. There is nothing more cosy, than two miserable people feeding each others misery.

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