It's been weeks now since the last time you were here when you took the
bottle that you'd been drinking from and smashed it against the wall.
You picked up a piece of glass and held it to my
neck—threatening. Later that night while you were asleep I
held it against yours—tempting. You woke, eyes wild with fury
and surprise, and waited for your life to end and for me to be the one
to end it. I couldn't.
I was in love with you once. There was a time when the craving for you
was so deliciously sweet that it was all I could do to keep from
falling. I wanted to sweep my hands over your chest, to have my fingers
grace the shiny metal of your belt buckle, to feel the heat of your
body warming mine.
That is what I want to remember. Not this—the cracked glass
cutting the bottom of my feet as I step out of bed, the broken
furniture or the flickering television now on its side on the floor.
Not your unwanted clothes that reek of whiskey and sweat
and blood. No, not this memory, and certainly not the way the world
feels now without you. Because, despite myself, I am in love with you
- - -
Read LM's story, "Tender Deaths."
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