"Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it" - David Foster Wallace

I've always imagined that there must be a certain bittersweet beauty in being the one left marred. It's bliss. It’s pain. It's satisfaction. It’s the twisted, irrefutable proof that you’ve lived- that you’ve done something real. It’s kind of poetic, when you think about it. Cling to me. Use me. Tell me you love me- even if it's a lie. Beg me to stay. Let me hear you long enough for your wet, choking sobs to become dry, crackling wails. I want your voice to break as my name catches in your throat. Let me hear it. Let me feel it. Kiss my fingertips, tear into my flesh, dig your nails into my side. Take a piece of me. Take all of me. I want you under my skin. Bruise your knees, bruise your soul. Punch the wall, touch the ground. Leave impressions of your fingerprints with my blood. Leave impressions of yourself on me. 

Never let me forget you. Carve your portrait into my eyelids. Burn your face into my retinas. I want to see you every time I close my eyes. I want you to want me to see you every time I close my eyes. Force me to look at the apathetic shell of a person you’ve become. Lie to me- tell it’s all my fault- that I made you this way. Just feel something. Hate me, love me, grieve me, want me. Get angry, and bask in the feeling. Let it roll over you in waves, and warm your skin, and if the guilt burns you, let yourself feel it- it's delicious. Just don't let it scar. Move on one day, live, love, forget about us- get everything you’ve ever wanted, and never speak to me again; but don't you dare keep making monsters. Don’t you dare break someone else the way you broke me. 

Love me enough to resent me. Care enough to make me suffer. I'd never lay a hand on you, but I want you to wish that I would. Be sick like me. Yearn for some sort of physical proof that what we had was real. Please. Don’t you wish that I loved you enough to pull your hair and twist your wrists and grip you hard enough to leave a bruise? To break skin? To walk around with your flesh under my fingernails and the salt from your tears on my shoulder? Be desperate. Be a villain. Want nothing more than to have that power over me- to make me lose my mind, my morals, my senses, my self. When I look in the mirror, let me see nothing but a mosaic of you. Let there be nothing else left. Make me your canvas. Make me yours. Draw a map of the scars I left on your heart. Break my spirit. Break my soul. Make me regret meeting you, loving you, ever letting you go. 

Bandage my wounds, and kiss me tenderly. Trace my scars with your fingertips, run your hands through my hair. Treat me like I’m something precious. Hold me like I’m made of glass. Whisper me sweet nothings until I fall asleep. Stay there, watch me dream, and listen to me breathe. Squeeze my hand, then drop it. Inhale, then exhale, and when the morning finally comes, gaze upon me with kind eyes, and give me that soft, endearing smile that only plays on your lips when you think I’m not looking. Please. Let that look, the look that seems to say a million little things at once, the look that tells me “my heart is yours,” be mine just one more time, and then… I’ll do it. I’ll let you go. Be happy and lovely and free. Leave me there in the wreckage of our love. In a prison that could only hold a monster of your own creation. I could survive just knowing that you were once mine. You’ve ruined me, and you know that I’ll be yours forever. Or at least for now.

Pain is better than indifference- right?