Broken Up

Xyla Baites

I remember a boy. I remember a boy with bright blue eyes rimmed with dark, heavy eyelashes. I remember a boy with feathery kisses and soothing hands. I remember another boy. I remember me. I remember my sparkling green eyes and plump lips. I remember my flaws and faults. I remember my willingness.

"God, you're so gay," he'd whisper teasingly in between kisses. "Yeah, gay for you," I'd reply, breathless from the work his hands were doing underneath the covers.

He solved my problems, my secret anger management issues. He'd stroke my back calmly and whisper in my ear how much he loved me until my breathing evened out. He made sure I wouldn't hit anyone else with no reason. And because I loved him, oh-so-deeply with my heart attached to his, I obeyed. I behaved myself and ignored what others said, even if they tried to provoke me. All because I could feel the bond between us, and I was in way over my head.

"I'll never hurt you," I whispered to him one night.
"You'll only hurt me if you hurt yourself," he whispered back.

I remember how I killed him. I remember how easily the knife sliced through his skin. I remember his screams. The one day where my anger grew too uncontrollable, and he tried to help when I desperately pleaded with him to leave. Because I knew that would happen. That I would go too far.
I remember everything. And it kills me. I live with it, silently dying behind doors and windows while my blood drains down the toilet. While the cuts on my wrist heal too quickly. While the memories dance around my head. Memories of a loving boy who cared too much.

While I lie broken and wasted in a bathroom of secrets and death. I remember him clearly. Too clearly. But I can never finish myself off. I can't die by my own hand. I promised him I would never do that. I remember that promise, and if I had the joy to forget it, even for a little while, I'd gladly stab that razor too far in, too deep into my veins. I remember too much.

"Rougher," I panted, desperate for my climax. "I can't hold it," his sweat dripped onto my face.
"Then don't."

But I also don't remember enough.

His voice is never quite right in my mind, his face is slightly skew. His hands are rougher, his body too pale. I remember too much of the wrong things.