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Memoirs of a stabbed candle.

Shavings from a candle are scattered at my desk. The wax left residue of my life all along the black canvas where I sit. Where I think.  Where I write.  It has a gaping slash, deep on the side. The hand that etched it was trying to distract the mind. The hand was the only thing that could move. Two years later and I’m still with a demon that seems to haunt me, a demon of another woman, another woman who loved him- another woman who received the love in return. After it all, after what history and the trials of love has taught me, this is why I am here, for two years later so I can obsess over this creature that I have created in my mind. Why can’t I let go? For Christ’s sake, take this fuckin’ thought away from me. It stays.

Self-inflicted wounds.

I had to ask more questions, two years later and I ask more questions to pick at the scab, to add salt to the wound. You know it’s going to bleed when you pick it, just not how much.  I believe a piece of all humans are masochistic and sadistic sick son of bitches. This is the only way to justify why anyone of us would do certain actions. It is the only justification why on earth I would ask him. We were doing good, if I may ask. I made a practical joke of how I was taking a pregnancy test, and how it showed I was in fact pregnant, thanks to Google. I found an image of a woman’s hand in a similar bathroom as mine with the positive results. He freaked out. He was ready to take me to Texas and accept responsibility for this false child after the jokingly threats of beating me. I laughed and in the end told him of my prank.  This is the light-hardheartedness humor that we express to one another. The only person that I can be like this with and it finally sunk in that he was actually gone.

Self-inflicted wounds.

I’m cleaning the wax everywhere on my floor. There’s coffee stains that smeared in with the wheels of my desk, resulting in dark, sticky streaks along my tile floor. Clothes are everywhere. Underwear thrown on all corners of my confinement, shoes, socks, cats, all scattered somewhere. A room that exudes the owner’s breath “I give up.” I try my best to clean it but never finish. Story of my life.

The candle has its own story to tell. How it sat innocently, to burn, to provide a sweet smell. Not to be stabbed, scraped and poked all along the rims where the fire once lived. The stabber has a story too. She asked her lover, her former lover, lover with no title that floats in the middle, what exactly happened that night. She asked if they had sex. He replied no. She knew their bodies touched though, she wanted the details, she wanted the images in her head.  She asked if this girl went “down on him.” He replied yes. Instantly she imagined her raven hair down between his thighs and legs, sucking hungrily with no other thoughts but the task at hand. She then asked if he returned the favor. He replied yes. One of the rare acts where it showed his emotions. The candle understands. The candle doesn’t burn anymore. She pictured him positioning her every way, spreading her legs wider to get a closer view. She pictured his tongue lapping up the foreign juices, swallowing to the last drop. She feels his hand on her doing this to her and removing them to touch the other’s skin. Is it soft? Is it smooth? Can you feel the muscles tighten and release? The candle breaks.  To further complete the image, in between the silence, she pictures him kissing her, both tasting each other, in a forbidden taste. She wants to ask how did her lips taste? What flavor will he remember, was it sweeter than mine? She doesn’t. She just sits. She just thinks. She asks if they were naked. He responds not all the way.The breaths are getting heavier in her head. She asks if he sucked on her breasts. He responds yes. She pictures them bigger than hers, and supple for the grazing. She asks if he fingered her. He responds yes. The image in her mind stops at his strong fingers exploring her lips. The candle bleeds hot wax into the crevices that have been scarred on its figure. It can’t be fixed regardless of the leftover wax besides it. The heavy hand continues its work.

Self-inflicted wounds.

Embedded in my mind is this. Over and over I have given this demon another power, another  line in her story of my mind. She laughs, she smiles, she doesn’t care what she has done. This is what doesn’t let me rest at night. She suffocates me with my own hand.

I tried to let go. I tried to talk it out, write it out, let it all out. I tried to be as angry as I wanted to be to let it go, I tried to let time deal with this, I tried.

The love of him momentarily kept her away, kept her under my bed, but I know where she lives, and she knows where I sleep. She comes when I’m alone. I fear I’ll always be haunted.

Two years later and it stings in a new way, in a way that resurfaces it all, but with a different light.

Do I sleep with another man to find a common ground? To find what physical means. No. there’s more.

Do I fall in love with another man and come to terms emotionally and physically? It can’t be done.

Not that I doubt the chances of this, or my moral views, but what could revenge possibly prove to me. Revenge is a tempting mistress, momentarily high off someone’s low. I don’t want more demons for my collection.

Where’s the direction for this exorcism? And who am I throwing into the pits of hell to never return?

A lonely thought. A memory. A candle.

I fear that I am weary on this journey, and will never be able to find my sword. It’s somewhere in me, hiding behind courage, tucked away in the unknown.

I wish to be set free.

To be relieved from this curse and fate that has been plunged into my heart’s soul.

Set me free.

I tell the candle this. I sweep up its remains and apologize for the abuse.

I’m incomplete, ‘half of something else.’

“Release me,” I mutter to the shavings, as I throw them away.

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