rage and recovery

i can still feel his hands around my neck

leather gloved hands reach out

from the inky blackness of my room

and wrap their thick fingers 

around my throat

the pad of their index finger

against the fluttering pulse of my heartbeat.

Doubt leans close, their stale breath against my ear

and they whisper against my neck

what if this is all a lie?

and no matter how much i want to

throw my elbow into his stomach

and wrench myself from his grip

and scream profanities at his questions

and tell him that not everyone is going to leave me

and not everyone is selfish,

that he is good and strong and quiet and safe

and he would never put a soft palm to my cheek

to distract me from the blade at my back.

but no matter how much i want to 

scream and rage at Doubt

with his leather gloves 

and his whispers of warning,

i do nothing but stand motionless in his grasp

as my mind hurls itself against my skull, 

banging against its prison,

sounding the alarms and self-destructing,

because what if he's right?

what if there is no softness in this boy,

in this world?

and what if his gentle touches mean no more

than body heat and loneliness and opportunity?

and what if every pretty word he said to me

and everything he wanted from me

have faded away in his mind

and I have turned into nothing more

than a warm body and a beating heart?

i let a choked noise fall from my lips

and Doubt releases his grip on me with a smile

and sinks back into the darkness,

his mission accomplished,

his deed done,

his havoc wreaked,

because no matter how much

i want to sink into the belief

that this boy is good and kind,

that his words are true

and his smile is sure,

i will always remember 

the vice grip those leather gloves

held on my throat

and i will always hear

that voice in my ear and wonder

who to believe.