It's not rape. It's not an assault. It's not abuse. It's just a matter of wearing me down until I stop trying to refuse.
The guilt weakens my resolve.
I did not do this to him.
'I'm not gay...' he says, which is fucking convincing when he's pinning me down, buttons breaking, hard against me. No one's saying you are, love, no one can except you. 'It's just... you.' But 'you' comes out harsh, like he's cursing at me, like I'm a demon he has to shake off. Maybe I am.
No. I did not do this to him. I'm not sure when I become so fucking irresistable.
I can't catch a breath, the heat is unbearable and I'm sure I'm going to have fingerprint bruises. If it wasn't so callous it'd be almost erotic.
He hurts me to take a break from hurting himself, and I don't object for too long. Take it out on me; I'm the one that confuses you, I'm the one that represents everything you hate about your own sexuality, that's fine, crush me and bruise me for a little while instead. But I did not do this to you.
Games are dangerous. Kissing and touching and pretending, just because we wanted to shock or excite, but we'd never talk about it. I was always comfortable and confident enough to understand it, I didn't know he was secretly falling apart until he was over the edge. Communication is a lot more worthwhile than we realise, sometimes.
'You were always a little tease, flirting and playing with me. I don't know how you did this to me.'
I did not do this to you.
Don't play the victim when you're the one dominating me, refusing to accept a rejection without a fight you always seem to win. You can't 'turn' someone, it's urban legend. This is all you. And in that moment, I forgot who he was, and I hated him. I grabbed my clothes and ran from it all.
The next day, I found him outside a bar banging his head against the wall repeatedly, blood streaming down his face. I was screeching and hysterical, and oddly remembered how much I wanted to make him better again. He was childlike and confused, whimpering and falling into my arms, apologising, crying, telling me he loved me as I bundled him into a taxi and took him home - our home, after he begged me not to tell his parents. I sat by his bed with antiseptic wipes and a towel, waiting to make sure the bleeding stopped while he fell asleep. A mumbled apology the morning after as he went back to his parents with a hat pulled down over his forehead.
I make it sound like my life is a constant stream of sex and abuse and drama, but it's not. It's just that... I don't know where else to put this part of my life. If I keep it inside, it'll rot me.
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