Dear Abuser,
I hope you know I physically can’t stand to see your face. My lungs deflate. I choke on every thought and word and breath that boils its way to the surface.
I am that stupid fucking town in that one Bible story-- up to my ears in water. The branches of my trees dry, their flowers withered. I am watching Noah float on the same water I choke on.
I guess I could argue that you are the Genesis, then.
You are the beginning. With your presence comes a flood, I gasp and beg and scream for you to stop, for flashes of everything you did to stop, the water to stop nipping at my skin-- you don’t fucking listen. With your existence births how hard it is for me to perceive consent-- what it’s like to be touched for the sake of being touched, to be wanted by someone who genuinely wants you, to not struggle with the fact that, like the flood of Genesis, you tore away everything you could.
This is where the story of Genesis and I diverge.
I haven’t rebuilt shit.
Rather, I think I have until I see you and it all comes back. Houses come crashing down as water seeps through their cracks. Everytime I hear you speak, I shake and tremble. You walk stupid and like you’ll develop joint issues sometime soon-- and yet my insides still churn as the ground splits under your feet (which are always positioned in a way that makes me think you have tendon problems). You make me feel so fucking weak.
Even in the desert could you find a way to drown me.
I hope you are miserable, you absolute piece of shit.
- Jasmine
