They said I needed a psychiatrist. They threatened to leave if I cut again. They said I was crazy when I accepted I love pain, I love blood.
No one knew my heart. It had stopped beating that day. Extraction of a few drops of blood from a dead soul sleeping in the grave not made for it, won't matter. The only time the extirpation of this red liquor matters is when the local rains by the pillow side fail to perfume the tomb with its extinct petrichor like the release of redden rusted waters do.
They said the past leaves. It doesn't. It stays there. Stays long enough to make your scars etched to the deepest of the skin layers. And on the days of drizzle, when the showers let the specks of atrabilious dust settle, your past comes alive, roaring along the lanes, like those ferocious winds banging against the streets of your soul on another day of thunderstorm.
They tell me to shed off the memorabilia I kept safe to remind me of all the pains. They order me to forget everything and move on. They ask me why didn't I leave everything behind. Can humans ever moult? They never do. Then why do you want me to wriggle out of my skin as if it was just sunbathed scales instead of sunburnt scars. I said I'm not a human, because I'm struggling to scrub off the bits of my skin, touched and devoured, the way you said. But with every flesh torn apart, I only managed to scream. I said I love pain. But not this. I can't bear the pain of separation from my tormentor. How do I explain, people die not the pain?
The shards that have scratched my meat are the drugs I'm addicted to. His hands flowing around and through me like the rivers kissing the banks, have become my new breaths. He became my addiction. He savoured me to keep his pleasures alive, I let him, to keep myself. Both needed to do something for a living. I was young. What others make you do, you let them. You let them into yourself. So did I. I let him fascinate me with all sorts of fancies he made me believe. He held my hand, I let him. He was my saviour, I thought, or a savourier as we grew.
He slowly but consistently boldened up. Consistency is the key to success, they assured. Yes it is. His determined moves won me. Won my anatomies but soul. He fancied my curves. He draped me with his waters. I sunk down below, into his treacherous hugs, into the real darkness. He licked me like he would sip his favourite cup of brewed coffee. He held me like a child clinging on to the only balloon he thinks he has. He entered me like I was the den in which the devilish versions of his very self resided.
And the best part remains, I let him. I let him break me, taste me. I let him in. I let him please himself at the cost of my very innocence. He consumed me like a fire would wood. And then I was left each time to cool down my burning overheated, overused misused ashes, alone, sometimes mixing with the soil of icy hearts and sometimes polluting the cold breaths of my fellow humans, if I'm one.
He drank, and left me empty. And the emptiness is something that can't be refilled by anybody else's soil. It can be filled by my very own, upon which he has built the fortress to declare his conquer. He has taken my life, so why can't a corpse die?
Yes, I love to cut. I'm addicted to pain I said. If not him, I'm my own tormentor. Why can't I show up the pain I keep on the inner side on the outside too? Why can't the hurts on the soul come out as geometrically graphical cuts on the mortality? Is it necessary for me to wear mask like he does of his saintly sinned deeds?
They said he's the culprit. But so am I. Because I never displayed any negation. I was already dead by then. A statue can never speak out the pain the hammer does to please for the eyes to see. I was the sculpture he was hammering, to keep himself excited always, shaping me into different forms each day. I lost my identity. I lost my uniqueness. I lost myself. I became what he wanted me to. I became his favorite toy he could play with and bust out his stress.
I rather became something as 'luscious' as the darkest cocoa. Its product. Either being melted in his hands to satiate his desires to drink me all over again like the chocolates now dissolving in my lusty mouth, or being frozen so that I'm brittle enough to break myself when he wants to relish me unwrapped afresh.
