Page 90 of Hollowed

She warmed water.

She was kind.

But kindness isn’t the same as beingkept.

And I had been kept.

I stopped eating.

Not to punish myself.

Because the fruit had no bruise.

The bread had no salt.

The soup had no silence in it.

And I missed the ache.

I missed the way he tied my wrists.

The way he watched me breathe like it meant something.

The way he worshipped me in stillness.

The way he wrecked me with reverence.

One night, I tried to sleep again in that bed.

I woke with my hand between my legs.

His name on my tongue.

I came.

Quietly.

And I cried.

Because he wasn’t there to hold it.

Because he wasn’t watching.

Because I had left.

And he had let me.

I stood at the door the next morning.

Ribbon in hand.

Barefoot.

And ready.

Not for forgiveness.

Not for rescue.

---