Memories of the Sea

Called, Cat

Wet whispered words soak through my tattered clothing. Stretched across my back are the remnant scars of the wings you ripped away for your very desire.

Falling from heaven, is what I did.

Or at least that's what you said I did when you hit me with that cheesy pick up line.

And when I didn't respond you hit me again with a different one. And that time when I was indifferent to your words, slightly annoyed to say the least, you hit me again.

This time with your fist. This time your eyes turned a deep dark shade of Evil Emerald, trademarked by the rest of the fragile ego men WHO,

once they feel beat down...

have to beat down someone else.

This time, you attacked me. Your nails, the sight of black lines across the tips where the old dirt laid, dug into my skin. The stinging sensation of my skin ripping apart at the seams. The squelching sound of my jugular being squeezed in between your hands. The smell of metallic blood stained against the brick of this old corner store. The taste of fear lingering on the tiny tastebuds of my tongue, even after everything stopped.

This time, you killed me.

No, not physically. But the moment you stood from those steps, made your way over, and stepped in front of me...like the Feline you called me, I curled up, hair standing tall attempting to make myself look more formidable than we both knew I was.

You were able to laugh it off once you saw my keys forming temporary brass knuckles.

A smile on your lips, a finger tucking a stray of my hair behind my ear, purposely grazing my cheek in the process.

You backed away, eyes lingering on my ass telling me to keep walking.

For you, this angel fell from heaven, a masterpiece ready to be painted and since I didn't agree it was my fault for the mistreatment you had planned. After all, wearing my ethereal gown was purposely for sore eyes of men to gawk and sore bodies to fill with life.

But for me, this angel is in the process of getting her wings repaired after your harsh yanking caused them to crack.

This time you weren't in the mood for breaking them off fully. And yet I still feel the ghost scarring of the girl's who time was sadly this time.

This time you hit me, not with a punch. But a smile. A knowing smile that this time I should somehow be fucking grateful you didn't actually hurt me.

This time you killed me. No not physically but by the way my stomach stirs and teary eyes sob at my couch,

it surely feels like you did.