Half Human

I don't remember what it was like to feel whole. Some days I am half human, other days I am less. We have a strange perception of wounds, how when you lose a leg your body still reminds you of the part of you that was once there. I wonder if phantom pains exist too, if it is not a physical part of you that is gone.

Ever since the moment he carved a battlefield out of my body and I was bound to carry that around. And how I told him to stop, but then let him because he said he loved me even though he was hurting me. I wonder why taking a shower takes about as much strength as building a house. Why when I look in the mirror I do not only see a fragile reflection of myself, but his hands too. Everywhere. The bracelets he made out of his hands for me are now jewellery to another woman. She wears them with pride, I guess hers did not burn into her wrists like a burn-mark.

When you grow up learning that your love is poison, you spend your years trying to fix everyone you love. Three men tell you you are a curse, two of which tell you - in the same breath - that they love you, one of which raised you. So I apologize for all the times I said I love you, because to you it felt like I threw a bomb in your lap, and you were waiting for it to explode.