The Weight of You

Time will tell.

You promised me.

You swore.

You begged down on your knees.

Time will tell.

You swore. You promised. You would prove yourself.

Would you ask me next time?

Would you care, dare I refuse?

Never again,

As you swore and promised?

You would thank me for understanding, as you did before.

As I did before.

I am so understanding, aren’t I?

So understanding, because as you force open my legs—you don’t bruise like the ones before you.

You don’t have to bruise, because you love me.

You love me so much, don’t you?

You whisper sweetness, wipe my tears, while I beg you to stop.

Until,

I won’t beg anymore.

Why should I?

You love me.

And you’re heavy.

And you’re large.

And you’re strong.

And I’m weak.

And I limp.

And when I cry,

You go deaf.

Temporary disability.

Because later,

After you’ve finished,

You do hear me.

You do listen.

And after you listen,

You cry.

You kneel.

You swear.

You promise—never again.

Until again.

And again.

And again.

And I stay.

Because your tears are sweeter than my salty ones.

Because you’re beautiful and I’m not.

Because you can kill me better than I can kill myself.

Because you can kill yourself better than I can kill you.

As you’ve promised and swore before.

I keep you at bay.

My waves are nowhere as big as your tsunami.

My storm is nowhere as powerful as your hurricane.

You think I’m pretty and you love me.

Better than I can love myself.

I want to throw up when you grovel at my knees.

You have no issue being a man when I’m powerless in your bed.

You made my bed yours—rolled me beneath my own covers.

You wielded them like chains, pressing down.

I could not breathe.

The heat is unbearable.

Not the comforting warmth I used to know.

I made my bed my sanctuary.

You decorated it as my grave.

Loving me was a mistake no smaller than me loving you.

Because I can’t let go.

And you won’t let me either way.

You wanted to be a good man.

Wanted me to turn you into one.

Instead—

I turned you into the beast.

I fed you.

I brushed your hair as you sank your fangs into me.

I kissed your forehead as you swallowed me whole.

And I fed you.

Because I feed you better than I feed myself.

Feast, my angel.

I am your last supper.

The final one in your gut.

I won’t tear you from the inside.

I won’t make you hurl.

I will prove myself.

I swear.

I promise.

I am down on my knees.

They said you weren’t worth my ink.

But you are my god.

And all I have is his.

My stories.

My poems.

My vows.

My back is still strained.

You’re too heavy for me to carry.

I need you to spare me.

I need to get out.

But what else do I have but my poems, my vows?