Last night you told me how alive your fists felt when they crashed against her skin. How her muffled screams sounded like auctioned prayers to you, and how you felt like a god. Today I sit in the middle of my messed up mind, trying to organise the mess of clothes and underwear scattered in a systematic order and I wonder, could that have been me? Could that have been my skin cells trapped in between your fists and my battered face in the mirror? I do not recognise this. I do not recognise you in this. somehow between the last time I saw you and the last time we spoke a monster was born within you. or was it just resurrected? I do not know this. but I’m glad those are not my bruises she is nursing. I’m glad my soul had the courage to walk away from your demons. I hope she finds a lover strong enough to carry away your damage.

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