"he loves me."
it was a faint whisper in the night,
almost a frightened sound
that escaped her lips,
as she sat alone in bed
next to his sleeping body.
next to him,
but still alone.
"he loves me not."
the last petal fell to the ground,
to the sea of pink and purple,
to the blanket of uncertainty
that covered the floor.
she was still for a moment,
until a shake of the head broke it.
"that can't be right."
she pulled another flower
out of the bouquet,
this time it would end differently,
it had to.
"he loves me,"
she said again with the pluck of a petal.
"he loves me not."
back and forth with herself once again,
it was the fifth bout of pulling,
hoping,
waiting for him to love her.
but each time she got the same answer,
and each time she didn't believe it.
of course he loved her.
everything he did was out of love for her,
he knew what was best for her,
he wanted her to understand.
and when she didn't,
and when he messed up,
he was sorry,
he bought her flowers,
he was sorry.
but when she saw those flowers,
she did not see an apology,
she did not see sincerity,
she did not see love.
she saw pretty purple flowers,
tempting her eyes away
from the scratches on her arms.
pretty purple flowers,
begging to be smelled
to mask the tinge of blood in the air.
pretty purple flowers
that were no match
for the purple splayed across her cheek.
you see, these flowers weren't an apology,
they were a distraction,
and now they were a game
and she couldn't decide which side she wanted to win
so she just kept playing
"he loves me
he loves me not
he loves me
he loves me not
he loves me
he loves me not
he loves me not
he loves me not"
he did not love her
he loved what he could do to her.
and now all she could think of was what he would do her
when he woke up
and saw his apology ripped to pieces,
a game made out of their love.
but couldn't he see that their love was already a game
and she was tired of losing?
so exhausted from him exhausting her of power,
so fatigued from the fatigue he put her body through,
so wasted from wasting away.
so tired, but she couldn't sleep,
because she had just been awoken to the reality of it all
her eyes were wide open
and she could see
she could see herself leaving
and she could see herself free
but she could how it would end.
he'd chase after her,
the romantic fairytale ending she never asked for
because there was a reason she was running
and that reason would linger at the back of her mind
when he catches her and says
"i love you
i love you so much it hurts
i love you so bad i can't breathe"
but she's the one who can't breathe
when his fingers are wrapped around her throat,
any noise she tries to make drowned out by the pressure from his hand,
any action she tries to take blocked by his forceful grip
he was in control of all of her
he had made a kingdom out of her body
and he was the sole ruler
and when he called her his queen
it was not out of affection
it was out of possession
he wanted to call her his
but she was not just his property
she was more than some self-fulfilling prophecy
that says you can't ever get away
he's gonna win anyway
it will always be his way
it will always be his
you will always be his
you're his queen
and what's a queen without her king?
a queen without her king is still a queen,
independent and strong,
free from the edicts he forced upon her body
she is her own kingdom
and she rules over her own life
and she can create an entire empire on top of the ashes of his reign.
she could see it already
she could see herself leaving
she could see herself free
she could see how it would end
she would not let him win.
she could see power when she looked in the mirror
she could see the fire in her eyes that he always overlooked
because eyes are the window to the soul
and he wasn't very interested in that.
she could see what he could not.
finally she could see that she was a lot like those pretty purple flowers
she was an excuse for everything he did wrong,
a beautiful distraction.
when careless turned into a caress
he looked down on her and said
"i can't stand to see your pretty face like that
don't make me do it again."
but he did it again and again
and just like those flowers
she picked herself to pieces in the process
because maybe with every layer she ripped away,
with her raw flesh exposed to him,
she would become more sensitive to his touch
she would be able to feel his love.
but no matter how hard his fingers pressed into her
she never felt a thing.
she was numb to the pain
but so responsive to the love that never came
and she kept waiting for him to choose to love her
and he did choose her
he picked her
but not in the way she longed for.
he picked her like a child picks a flower,
plucking it out of the ground without a blink of an eye,
forgetting that it's living
and that every time you touch it it dies a little more
a flower cannot lived once you've picked it
it is not yours to take
it deserves to bloom
she deserves to bloom.
she would not let him pick her anymore
she would replant herself,
let her petals open themselves to the sun and replenish,
let her seeds disperse without anyone taking them from her,
let herself grow,
let herself live.
because what's juliet without her romeo?
she's alive.
