It only hurts when your eyes are open.

You can see the carpet, and you can see your hands in front of you. It's not a dream, and it's not lucid, because then you'd be in control. Instead, you can see your hands, but they clench and unclench without your approval. You move and your elbows hurt from digging into the carpet, but you're not doing it. You only feel it when your eyes are open.

If you close your eyes, it doesn't hurt anymore. You can't see your face in the mirror, and you can't see the way your hair falls down. It's getting longer now. You'll need to cut it soon. But even those little thoughts are still there, still thoughts and they go away entirely if you close your eyes. Then it doesn't hurt anymore.

You can't feel anything if your eyes are shut.

He never does anything with the lights off, but you never ask him to. You'd love to. You want to. The lights are too damn bright, too damn illuminating of everything that's wrong with you. You want to be able to just lay there, and let him do what he needs to. But he keeps wanting more. He tries to kiss you, and your mouth opens, but your tongue feels like lead, and it won't move. You let his tongue into your mouth, and the taste is sweet, but too much so, like old apples.

When you're on your stomach, the carpet rubs against your skin with every jerk forward. You'll burn. Your hands are trying to hold onto the rug. He mistakes it for passion. You're just trying not to think. You are trying to forget what you do to your body, what you do with your body.

Right before he cums, he kisses your back.

But your eyes are closed, and you're somewhere far, far away, where unfaithfulness to yourself can't hurt you. You're hidden, somewhere else. Behind closed lids is your sanctuary.