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You knew I would never have forgiven myself for that single slightest turn in the corner of your lips. I did not let myself see it for what it was (the monstrosity of you, but you would have dismissed it with an ungainly snort and a careless wave of your hand), did not want to deem myself responsible for your trust misplaced, faith thrown to the corner where you believed it would linger, safe, comforted, sated. You blamed me often enough for your own mistakes, but I willingly (foolishly) gathered all your slippery, splintery words to my chest and ignored that throbbing ache in my arms, my heart, my head. You know how Iapos;ve become proficient at this game, I am numb solely because of you.

Surely this isnapos;t who youapos;ve become. You havenapos;t left me, not at all. This is what I tell myself when I trace the contours of your face, smooth your matted hair, pull your parched lips into a smile (that I once had only to myself) with my thumbs. I tell myself we are not playing this game, not again.

And when you grip my fingers so hard the colour in my knuckles drain, and when you jerk my face down and I see the raw, suppressed ferocity gleaming black as coal in your eyes, I do not shudder from your strength, I do not snap back and recoil from this abrupt intimacy, I only close my eyes and relish the fact that youapos;ve finally come home to me.


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