Page 312 of Eternal
I’m fucking ruining myself again. I hate this. Why am I like this?
I’m ruining everything. Every-fucking thing.
I told myself just a sip, to feel warm inside like I felt this morning, like I felt with him, when he smiled at me, when he kissed me and hugged me.
Butwarmthalways turns to fire in me.
The music in the living room is too loud. I like it that way, it drowns the part of me that whispers, that reminds me of things, that remembers.
I tip the bottle back again.
Not even bad…
I used to be good at this.
There’s a laugh caught in my throat, like it’s trying to crawl out of me and escape.
A stupid, broken laugh, because I’m happy. Iam.
I’m happy that someone stayed, that this‘someone’was him.
He kissed every place I thought no one would even want to look at. He didn’t flinch at the burns, the cigarette ghosts, the scars that never really faded. He touched them like the wordbeautifulwas written in every line and said nothing cruel.
And I didn’t bleed, I didn’t bleed this time.
It felt…good.
I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until I realized the sheets stayed clean, until I realized I felt okay, not terrified, not gone, only...here.
In my body. In my mind.
That’s what wrecks me, that’s why I want to drink and drink and fucking drink until there’s nothing left of me to love. Until he sees it the way I do, disgusting, andsad.
Until he leaves, and I’ve got one more reason to believe I was never worth staying for.
Because I thought I was past saving, because I was terrified of any kind of pain, because I’m still instinctively touching my stomach in the water, caressing it.
Feeling sorry for everything that happened to my body, sorry for feeling so dirty when it’s been so long I shouldn’t anymore, but he touched me like I wasn’t.
So now I’m drinking vodka in a bathtub like I’m fifteen again, hiding bruises and pretending I don’t care who did what to me.
Pretending I’m not shaking on the inside, pretending I didn’t hate the touch I felt, and then I suddenly misshispresence.
Because weirdly enough for the first time, he wasn’t the one causing this state.
He didn’t hand me the bottle, he didn’t drag me to the bathroom and press play on the playlist that makes me feel seventeen and hollow again. He didn’t say, hey, remember what you were before I touched you like I care?
He just kissedme.
Some people would say I’m backsliding, that he’s bad for me if I’m drinking again, but it’s not him.
It’sme.
It’s the part of me that never learned what to do with safety, the part that’s scared of soft things because soft things always turn dangerous.
And right now, I miss him so bad it aches behind my eyes. I miss the way he said my name like it was a secret. The way he kissed me slowly even when he could’ve taken more.
The way he held my face like I was a thing to protect. I wanted to tell him I was proud of myself, for not bleeding, for feeling okay. But how do you say that without saying everything else?
