A Week and A Day

There are seven bruises on my body and one inside of it. Two pale circles on my right forearm, one by the wrist and one halfway to the elbow. A fist-sized, wonky shadow of purple and puke green on my left thigh, it connects a bit to a fresh pink welt closer to my knee so I only count them as one. Mirroring it, a dark blotch on the right thigh. A tiny purple divot above my right hip. My entire right calf along the tibia, red and brown and tender to the touch. A near-invisible bite on my left breast.

And my entire fucking uterus. Goddamn it, I am in so much pain.

Every movement that comes from my core – rolling out of bed, flexing my stomach, standing straight – sends dull, thudding pain into my sides, pubis and lower ribs. I just want to lie in the fetal position and weep. Why do I do this to myself? I look like I got in a bum fight and feel like I’ve taken a jackhammer to the cunt. I remember his fist in my hair, his hand around my throat, the rhythmic beat of his bony hips into mine and I want to puke. I let him do this to me in some small hope it will bring me as much joy as it does him. But every time, still, consistently, I feel nothing. Not until twelve hours later when sleep and regret bring me into the pain.

It’s not abuse, not in any sense of the word. If I asked him to stop he would. I can see it now, the face I know so well, a dejected nonchalance, “Okay.” Averting eye contact for a second, wonky half-smile, scolded puppy penitence. He wouldn’t do it again without asking first (which, predictably, would be fifteen minutes later).

It’s more self-harm than anything else. Slap me, toss me around, yank me wherever you want, asshole. I don’t love you. I just hate myself. I hate this body that juts and rolls and angles my form, that can’t orgasm no matter how hard it fucking tries, that bruises so easily but can’t throw the punch. Faster, harder, change positions, try something, anything, get me there, where is there?? Fuck! Fucking goddamn it, I just want to see the light.

It’s easier than slitting wrists, that’s for sure.

 

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Author: thesmellofsage

Al, 18, student living, working and studying in NYC. Jack of all trades, master of none. Poetry, art, music, etcetera etcetera ad infinitum.

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