I am broken.

2

He did it. He broke me. Of all the things that could have happened last night . . . He planned it all, I know he did. He ordered my favorite wine and insisted on keeping my glass brim filled. I was actually nice though when I woke up. There's a certain thrill in waking up next to another human being, watching their chest rise and fall as they sleep. I was still quite damaged. That morning moment was the only ray of sunshine that was produced from the previous events. My mind and body weren't the ones that suffered the worst damage, it was my heart. Before only a half belonged to me, but now I share it, and the rest of my fractured soul with the others. The ones who stole it. I fought. I cried. I did everything I my power to stop them from taking me in their nasty hands and snapping me with like a twig. What makes it worse is that after it all, I reek with the desire and need for him. I want him to hold me, to press his soft velvet lips against my own. I want him to caress my cheek and wipe away the continuous tears. The deep utter longing makes me sick. At night, when my shower drains, it's plagued with the deep scarlet from within me. I cry like a newborn. It's never ending. For him, for me, for anyone else who has fallen prey to temptation. On really bad days he finds me. Shivering, wet with the mixture of blood and water, hugging my knees to my chest, bawling. Whenever that happens, he pries the blade from my cold fingers and shuts off the water. Then wraps me in a warm blanket while I cry into his chest. From then on I never remember what happens, and wake up in my pajamas with him beside me on the bed. Despite everything that happens, all the ups and downs, in those moments, I feel whole again and am filled with hope. The hope soon evacuates when I realize my mistake because I remember: I am broken.