Luna Dust

I’m struggling to understand this foreign feeling permeating my body. It stems from my past self, living in pictures and memories of you.

But this time I can’t stunt the growth with toxins or overwater your roots. You are the weed that lives inside me, clinging onto my veins, feeding off every ounce of energy I might possess.

I poison myself just to be rid of you, but like a weed, your roots are too deeply indented, too intertwined with my veins, and too submerged between my hemispheres.

I can feel your vines in my lungs and your jagged leaves, extending like barbed wire in my throat.

You stop time every day as I try and break your imperishable roots, reminding me of your face, and the way you entangled yourself with me, suffocating what should have bloomed.

I am not a doorway, you may not enter me uninvited.

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annaibanescu:

(Source: annajoganiyan, via sskeptical)

Sometimes I can still feel your hands on my skin, the deep rubbing of your thumbs and your index finger on my shoulder, serpentining to my lower back.

I walk around this new town I stumbled in to and smell the deep musk that permeated my body when you stood a little too close.

There are still places my body won’t take me, but my mind visits you every day. It spelled your name today, that I convinced myself was repressed, forgotten and lost. But even now you manage to steal my thoughts.

Now I remember, you live in my mind from 11,000 miles east, aching in every part of my body. And what’s worse than your hands on me, in places I’d never been touched before, your hands envelop my mind, and sculpt every thought.

You’d watch me from the corner, with hungry eyes, pulsing loins, and sideways glances, using every excuse to enter my atmosphere like an unwelcomed meteor. But I wasn’t strong enough to dissolve you, and instead, you entered, uninvited and wounded every shield I tried to project.

I walked home, the night it happened, your footsteps resonating in my polluted mind like banging at the door between my legs, when I said I wouldn’t let you in.

But still, you left your shoes by the front door, mud in the carpet and your sickly scent as your marked your territory.

Now in the broad strokes of my identity, all you see is an object, I’m spoiled and used and violated, just because you wanted a toy to play with.

So after I played the fallen women, and wore clothes that would hide my curves, and pulled my eyelashes and hair from my skin so I wouldn’t attract you anymore. I ignored you in the hallway and turned down your persistent proposals, and hid from the camera that would watch me from your cave.

My silence made you mad, so you crept up closer and followed me home, and even now I can see your shadow behind me, and your footsteps drumming in my ears. I am timorous, a million times over.

Now I am halfway around the world, but I feel your hands on my back, your voice in my ear, your taste on my lips and I am sick to my stomach and drowning in the tank you kept me in, only allowing me air when it works in your favor.

I’m afraid I’m not a person anymore, just an object to men who are bored.

And before I knew it, you broke me. I thought only I was capable of that.