this piece is written in the perspective of a male i.
Tell me, does your body respond the same way when he touches you? Do you scream his name at the brink of your climax?
Yes,
but your actions contradict—you push me away but you ache for more,
its veracity more certain with the remnants of my flesh accumulated under the tips of your manicured fingernails. It was my name I heard, audible beneath muffled whispers of your trembling lips and soft caresses. A time like this became one of the meager moments when his very existence became tantamount to mere fallacies.
You loved him, but you wanted me.
You had his soul, but you ached for my body.
ii.
Blur altered my sight, my breath stung of liquor.
I could not count how many bottles I'd tumbled over,
nor could I seem to erase the taste your lips have had me accustomed to.
I had chosen to seek refuge in the bitter toxicity of this burning liquid,
than to concede to the particular relish of your taste.
I had torn open the second pack of cigarettes, but was restrained by my companions from having any more. Did I have too much? No, I wanted more, regardless of the aftermath.
iii.
I wanted you to leave him, but why was it me you were walking away from?
I grabbed your wrist out of the anger that I needn't contain.
Another bruise discolored your arm, one that I always so lightly dismissed.
Tell me, what did I do to deserve such torment? The things surrounding me have left me rather insatiable, and in the end of this temporary, lonesome world of endless greed and demise, I had nothing. I had hung on a lifeline tied by you. I wished you had left him, and kept me.
iv.
I lay waste in this barren of a place everyone seems to call 'home',
seeping through sleepless nights and aimless days, seeking comfort in the indulging odor of smoke and whisky. I idled myself in the air of melancholy, rather than forerunning the unforeseeable future ahead of me. I'd spent most days drifting along the deviance of my thoughts, reminiscing the memories we kept behind closed doors. "He doesn't need to know," you said.
Time ran by—not that it was something I had to pursue.
v.
Blood stained my shirt, my knuckles burning with the desire to impact the man you deemed a lover. I saw tears trickling down your skin as I'd watched you race after him.
Rage rooted from the thirst for revenge had stripped me off my pride and dignity.
I had thought hurting the one you loved would release me from the chains of the unbreakable stronghold I called heartache.
No, I'd felt worse.
The blood that had been left on my knuckles symbolized not of the strength and courage I had, but that of my utter desperation to have you.
It was a measly game you played from the start—now, I lost and you have to pay the price.
vi.
He had what I so deeply wanted.
He had what I would have so gladly killed for.
I had given you everything, but why did it seem like it had amounted to nothing?
For limitless days, I fantasized being in his place, hand in hand with the promise of devotion and sweet ardor—instead, I pondered the nights I did wrong, and studied the ones he did right. My teeth clenched out of the numbing sensation of envy. You were the poison that had intoxicated my very being.
vii.
In his presence, I'd taken note of your features, adorned with the evident hints of bliss. Of all the memories spent in utter secrecy with you, I surmised I had you dancing in the palm of my hand, when in fact, I was entangled in yours. You were a compulsive aesthete, possessing the body of a prepossessing maiden. How hard it was for me to register the reality of you wanting me not for my quaint dispositions, but for the unquenchable thirst you had for lust.
You were my ventriloquist, tugging on the strings the way you desired, unresponsive to the sentiments I'd impetuously endured.
You sought pleasure in my body,
but savored the historicity in his soul.
February 4, 2018 Painting by Al Molina
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