He Will

They tell you “he will break you” whenever they see you with him, always as a repetition, a warning, a vow.

You agree with them, saying something along the lines as he will.

They tell you “he will break you,” over and over again, as if you did not feel yourself shatter already, as if you were not already broken.

You simply tell them he will.

***

Is this love?

You don’t know the meaning of the word and you know that he doesn’t know it either, but you like to tell yourself that “yes, it is” because it’s much easier that way.

You like to say that love is the way his body takes you in bed. Love is the way his skin caresses against yours in the moments of bliss. Love is the way that the two of you sweat, love is the heat that vibrates between the two of you; love is the way heartbeats mingle together under a mountain of cool rich silk.

Love is the way he smothers you, the way he makes you think of only this moment and nothing else. Not even the pressing future that lies ahead in front of you like a gloomy cloud waiting to pour out rain.

Love is the way that he… and you… and then…

But sometimes he takes you a bit too hard; he pushes you too far, too much, too fast. He uses you sometimes, even when you didn’t want to, he takes you. And you cry.

He cries too, along with you. He holds you in his arms when he realizes what he has done. He says I’m sorry, over and over again, as if he knows he broke you. He apologizes and tells you that he never meant to do this, not to you, not like this.

He mutters his excuses, he sobs out his apologizes, and he begs. He begs you not to leave him.

And you don’t.

Because this is love, isn’t it? And love never has an unhappy ending.

***

Sometimes you like to trace the pattern on his arm. You once found it repulsive, but now you find it artistic. You think it looks pretty on his arm, against his light skin. You think that the dark bold lines floating on top of his beautiful pale skin is like Monet’s water lilies. He watches your fingertips brush against his it, repainting each line with your warmth.

You like to ask him if it hurts.

Everyday, he would respond to you, as your finger lazily drags itself around on his skin, contemplating his answer.

You like to look thoughtful at him then. You like to say something along the lines of I will save you.

He doesn’t thank you.

Truthfully, he doesn’t think you can.

***

He comes home with wounds and scars and you cry. You tell him how you hate it how his beautiful flesh gets marred with scars and welts. You tell him how you hate it when he comes home shaking uncontrollably because he gets held a moment too long under a tormenting curse. You like to scream at him to stop it, to stop playing with the devil and leave this all to him.

But his eyes only look at yours before saying, “You’re not ready.”

You feel ashamed at the fact that he’s right.

You let him take you as hard as he could that night, not caring if you bleed.

***

He looks beautiful at the last moment, as if he’s a fucking martyr. He likes to tell you that he does not regret. He tells you that he knew this moment was going to come before he succumbs. You like to curse him, asking him how he could be as so insensitive for not letting you save him. You like to yell at him that he has to wake up or else you’ll tell all his dirty secrets. You like to shake him, to take your hands and try and force open his eyes. All you see is a blank stare.

The old man apologizes to you when you ask him to save him, a task that you weren’t able to accomplish. He apologizes and says that he cannot. You like to curse him then, to glare at him, to snarl at him. You scream at him telling him that it’s his fault, and that you’re tired of being his war tool.

You shed no tears when he dies. You sit in front of a grave and open up a bottle of champagne instead.

***

He broke you.

You realize that, in the end.

He did what you knew he was going to do.

You sort of find it ironic, in a bitter, senseless way.

***