Poor Devil

He wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. I gasp for air and close my eyes as he fucks me with ferocity. I don’t dare look at his face, look him in the eyes. What I would see there would kill me, but I don’t have to look to know: he’s choking me because he likes to hurt me, not because he loves me. Although he does love me, and, yes, I asked for this, but he likes to hurt me more than he loves me.
I wonder how I got here. No I don’t. I know how I got here. I know why I’m here. I know why I’m enduring this and why I’m also enjoying this. I know who I am.
He is the weapon that I use to hurt myself. The permutations of my self destruction have separated themselves from me and reincarnated themselves as a wholly separate human being, who is towering over me, and smiling as we both think about my life slipping in between his fingers. I can’t even tell who likes hurting me more – me or him. I don’t know what it means to him to slap me around when I’m not expecting it, to grab me by the hair and toss me across the room in between moments of silence. All I know is that it hurts me, and it pleases him.
So I sit in silence and wait for this to pass. For what to pass? I thought that by now I’d have left those suicidal ideations and self pity behind, but for some reason indulging my own sense of worthlessness makes sense. It’s not that it feels good – it just makes sense. Probably because he hurts me the same way my mother hurt me – in that deep, precious way that only a mother or a lover could hurt me. But the pain he gives me – it’s uncanny. If I still talked to my mother, I would run to her and tell her gleefully that I found someone who treats me the way she did, who makes me feel empty in that familiar, familial way. Who doesn’t live up to my expectations, or meet my needs, or fill me with a sense of wonder or love. She would probably smile and nod and ask to meet him.

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