I'm afraid now. I hate being afraid. I hate being weak. I fucking hate with a passion I didn't know I had. I wanted to gouge your eyes out then. I can't meet your gaze now.
I still can't get the feel of you out from under my skin. I wake up at night, freezing, because the covers touching my body feel like your hands. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't fucking touch me!
The apartment shakes as my housemates try to make me be quiet by introducing their own noise. I sit up, curled against the wall, my knees drawn in against my body, rocking back and forth in the dark. But I can't stay against the wall too long, or it'll warm up, and it'll feel like your hands again. Like you're touching me.
And I can't take that. Get away from me!
Get out of my mind, out of my skin. You're not welcome. I didn't want your mouth on mine on the dance floor, and I don't remember asking to have my addictions reduced. I didn't ask you to hurt, and you did anyway.
I didn't ask, and now I can't even conceive how that was....whatever it was.
Fun. Likeable. Addictive. Necessary.
I don't want to be in pain. Ever again.
I just want to escape my skin, cutting it away strip by strip until I can reach the bits of yourself you left inside, and destroy them. Maybe then I can have myself back again.
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