Is it feasible to imagine that as you would layer the truths with your lies, you felt sickened? Do you count each minuscule truth as an offset to each inclusive tale you weave? Are you as repulsed at your humanity as I am when I stare at your shadows left meandering around lifeless in my brain? Am I still there in yours, pleading for your love and wondering why it took you so long to notice that I was the one you should have clung on to? Do you feel, even in this time later, the extreme force you impaled me with on the nights you sent me flailing across the room begging for you to stop? I wonder, was that really you, or the remnants of your own pain trying to find balance and control in a weaker being? Why do I still love you? Why do I still at times call for that shadow to emerge because it makes the light brighter somehow? Am I insane to rub the scars you left and think of the laughter we shared? How did you touch me with such passion and not get burned? When will I stop closing my eyes and wondering what your warm calloused hands would feel like once again slipping up my thighs to rest your fingers in the heat of a wanting core? Do I owe you this lustful contemplation and erotic outcry of longing? What did you give me that was more than what you took? Do you know, after I stopped bleeding, I started living again? But what kind of life is this, still lost in the many questions that you owe me an answer for? I beg of you, though I know you are gone, how will you reply to this prose?
