word prompt: stray
you will take her down with you one day.
today, she thinks she's alright, she thinks she's happy, she thinks she has power, she thinks she has free will. and that's what she's going to think tomorrow too. that's what you want her to think.
tomorrow, she will feel something she has never felt before. tomorrow, she will ride a high that she will never want to come down from. tomorrow, she will breathe you in and grin, dizzy.
and i will brush a stray hair from her eyes. and she will look at me, dazed and confused, still smiling– and ask me who i am, and why i am important. i'll tell her i'm not.
the day after, she'll chase that high again. and the day after that. and the day after that. because it's magical, isn't it?– that feeling of knowing everything, being everything.
she tells me she can leave whenever she wants to– she just chooses not to. she's in control, or so she always thinks. and the stray hair– it's all over her face, and i don't have enough hands to brush it away. she wouldn't let me anyway.
she screams now, and throws around glass vases and breaks them along with my heart. she holds me by the collar and slams me against a wall because i'm suffocating and way too much sometimes.
and then she quits you. smug and an 'i told you i could quit anytime', she finally lets you go. and she hugs me and holds me tight and whispers that she never wants to let me go.
she doesn't– not until four months later, at least– when everything is falling back into place, but then she's with you again, crying about how everything feels pointless and just stupid without you.
nothing hurts as much as that.
her eyes are red and her blue jeans stained, and i find her in the corner of the city, puking out her love for you, and i pray it worked.
whispers of i'm sorry, kisses down my neck– she's back again, and i hope that this time, she won't leave.
it takes a whole year for her to go back to you now, but she still does. she always does, and it always hurts just as much.
this time, i find her on the grimy floors of a public bathroom, crying– and i'm furious because i'm the one who deserves to cry, the one who's been dragged into this stupid, fucking mess because of her stupid, fucking, unending mistakes.
two nights later, back at home, her eyes are blank and her nails are digging into her skin. i thought i had it under control, she says, her voice cracked.
i come across her letters one afternoon, the ones saying that the only escape she sees is to leave it all behind forever. she rues the day she kissed you so, says she'd do anything to take it back because now you're the only thing that makes her feel alive but you're the one killing her as well. she jokes about how it's ironic, but frankly, it's just sad. it's sad that she's never going to feel alive again without you in her fucking system, and it's sad that she could be laughing, spinning around, hugging me tighter than she's ever hugged anyone– but she still wouldn't feel alive. and you– you did that to her, and you're a fucking piece of shit for it.
you have this power over her, this control that'll never waver. and you'll keep sneaking back into her life, and she'll keep taking you back like a long-lost friend.
six months later, when i think it's all okay again, i'll find the money in my wallet gone, and it'll be in the back pocket of her new denim skirt. two months after that, she'll disappear entirely. five weeks more, and she'll come back begging for forgiveness, saying she'll let you go for good this time. and i will still believe her, and love her just as much as i do today.
but you: i know you'll come back soon enough, and as much as i don't want to, i will wait for you until then, i suppose.
and she: she will suffocate between us, but there is nothing else for her to do. soon enough, she'll realize that she was never in control and that she never will be.
because you know i won't let her breathe or live, or so she says. and you? i know you won't let her go astray, keep pulling her back to you like there's strings involved– i'd much rather you didn't.
there's really nothing more i can do about it. all i can do is watch, watch as she destroys herself and hope that she rebuilds herself from those pieces before going back to you again.
it's funny, though, isn't it? how happy she is. after all, we're the only two things she loves in this whole damn world.
today, she thinks she's alright, she thinks she's happy, she thinks she has power, she thinks she has free will. and that's what she's going to think tomorrow too. that's what you want her to think.
tomorrow, she will feel something she has never felt before. tomorrow, she will ride a high that she will never want to come down from. tomorrow, she will breathe you in and grin, dizzy.
and i will brush a stray hair from her eyes. and she will look at me, dazed and confused, still smiling– and ask me who i am, and why i am important. i'll tell her i'm not.
the day after, she'll chase that high again. and the day after that. and the day after that. because it's magical, isn't it?– that feeling of knowing everything, being everything.
she tells me she can leave whenever she wants to– she just chooses not to. she's in control, or so she always thinks. and the stray hair– it's all over her face, and i don't have enough hands to brush it away. she wouldn't let me anyway.
she screams now, and throws around glass vases and breaks them along with my heart. she holds me by the collar and slams me against a wall because i'm suffocating and way too much sometimes.
and then she quits you. smug and an 'i told you i could quit anytime', she finally lets you go. and she hugs me and holds me tight and whispers that she never wants to let me go.
she doesn't– not until four months later, at least– when everything is falling back into place, but then she's with you again, crying about how everything feels pointless and just stupid without you.
nothing hurts as much as that.
her eyes are red and her blue jeans stained, and i find her in the corner of the city, puking out her love for you, and i pray it worked.
whispers of i'm sorry, kisses down my neck– she's back again, and i hope that this time, she won't leave.
it takes a whole year for her to go back to you now, but she still does. she always does, and it always hurts just as much.
this time, i find her on the grimy floors of a public bathroom, crying– and i'm furious because i'm the one who deserves to cry, the one who's been dragged into this stupid, fucking mess because of her stupid, fucking, unending mistakes.
two nights later, back at home, her eyes are blank and her nails are digging into her skin. i thought i had it under control, she says, her voice cracked.
i come across her letters one afternoon, the ones saying that the only escape she sees is to leave it all behind forever. she rues the day she kissed you so, says she'd do anything to take it back because now you're the only thing that makes her feel alive but you're the one killing her as well. she jokes about how it's ironic, but frankly, it's just sad. it's sad that she's never going to feel alive again without you in her fucking system, and it's sad that she could be laughing, spinning around, hugging me tighter than she's ever hugged anyone– but she still wouldn't feel alive. and you– you did that to her, and you're a fucking piece of shit for it.
you have this power over her, this control that'll never waver. and you'll keep sneaking back into her life, and she'll keep taking you back like a long-lost friend.
six months later, when i think it's all okay again, i'll find the money in my wallet gone, and it'll be in the back pocket of her new denim skirt. two months after that, she'll disappear entirely. five weeks more, and she'll come back begging for forgiveness, saying she'll let you go for good this time. and i will still believe her, and love her just as much as i do today.
but you: i know you'll come back soon enough, and as much as i don't want to, i will wait for you until then, i suppose.
and she: she will suffocate between us, but there is nothing else for her to do. soon enough, she'll realize that she was never in control and that she never will be.
because you know i won't let her breathe or live, or so she says. and you? i know you won't let her go astray, keep pulling her back to you like there's strings involved– i'd much rather you didn't.
there's really nothing more i can do about it. all i can do is watch, watch as she destroys herself and hope that she rebuilds herself from those pieces before going back to you again.
it's funny, though, isn't it? how happy she is. after all, we're the only two things she loves in this whole damn world.
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