I don’t remember why I did it for the very first time. I don’t remember the second or even the third. It is very hard to recollect why or how you became a part of my life. To this day, even after you’ve been long gone, I can see you. I feel you. Each time my heart skips a beat, I know it’s you moving in your grave. Banging against your coffin you try to break free from the bonds you had been tied in. You should have been dead by now. I had hammered your coffin with the strongest nails that I could get. I had prayed and pleaded to the sea, and she had her waves take you and bury you deep within her. But even after all of this, why do I still mourn you?
It was twistedly satisfying to let you completely control my body. I didn’t have a to feel sadness in particular to come running back to you, the ghost of your presence lingered around the corner of every emotion. My fingers listened to you with extreme admiration. My wrist desperately begged for deep passionate kisses. My thighs were never satisfied and though the rest of me longed for the same touch, I just knew this affair had to be a secret.
I remember before I came to you for the last time, to see you off, to make sure that I was going to break this off, I sat down to have a little talk with myself. With my fingers, I traced the scars that you had left. To my wrist I gave quick, safe feeling kisses and to my thighs I showed pretty dresses that I could no longer wear because they landed right above where the remnants of our love had made a permanent home. I remember convincing them all, for a very brief moment, to listen to me and do what was right for all of us. And in that brief moment I remember picking you up, still sliver and exact but with a little rust around the corners from where I may not have cleaned my blood. I remember locking you away in a pretty pink box, rushing outside and disposing you off to where you were meant to be.
I remember my bath from that day very clearly, I remember feeling numb, I remember feeling alone and tired for days. I remember wanting to just touch you and I remember how bad I craved your touch. I wanted to feel you poke and cut through my skin. I wanted to feel you deep in my flesh. I wanted to see the red flow out and drip from my wrist to the drain, from my thigh to the drain. I wanted to flow with it into the drain, into the darkness and never return.
I don’t remember how I saw the light again. I don’t remember when I started going back to the kitchen and feeling nothing particular before picking up the knife. It looks very much like you and still reminds me of you. But that doesn’t mean I want you to come back. I’m happier without you. I know I am in a better place and I know you are long gone. But I still wish I could remember why I did it for the first time, just to make sure you never come back ever again. Please don’t come back again.