the aftermath of agony is the silence that follows. after the screaming ends. after the pain dissipates in a cloud of medication and regret. after the bruises fade and the scars are stitched up and covered. the aftermath is waiting for the normalcy to resume.
i was a child, and my lover held me by the neck and told me to die. his fingernails curled around the skin of my porcelain skin as he whispered in my ear, his words sickly and cruel. "oh, my beautiful flower. my summer night warmth. i have heard stories and i am not pleased." the things he would say to me, bless his damaged soul.
i would forgive, and i would forget, and i would pretend. and most of all, i would love. my body would blossom with love for my lover. the aftermath of agony is love. because when you have no choice, it cannot be anything else.
i stitched up his cuts and told him i loved him. i stood by his bedside as he fell asleep, his poor head filled with toxins and shame. how could he hurt the one he loved the most? when you have nobody else, you cling to those that stay. and so that's what i did.
