August 22, 2011

It’s morning. I wake up feeling a little drunk, a little disoriented. He crawls under the covers with me. I scratch his bare back until he looks at me. He’s not the same. Those blue, blue eyes that once seemed to hold a whole world behind them now appear shallow and bloodshot. The bags under his eyes are so dark. He looks washed out, or maybe worn out. From what, I don’t know. Next thing I know, his hands are on me. I can’t decide if I want them to be. He looks almost scared. As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I can imagine I look about the same. Next thing I know, he’s in me. I can’t comprehend what’s going on. It happens; I see it and I feel it, but I don’t understand it. I don’t say anything. I just think. Is this happening? Is this okay? I can’t decide. Indecisive. More than indecisive, I am conflicted. I am confused. I feel lost. This is not what I want. I shouldn’t be letting this happen, but I already have. He said he wouldn’t do that to me. Not ever. I look at him, and I don’t even know him. I don’t recognize him. For a second, I don’t recognize myself. I once felt a part of him; he now feels like a perfect stranger. Pause. I feel vulnerable. I feel helpless. I feel exposed. Suddenly, it’s over. I still can’t tell reality from my fogged-up thoughts. He puts on his clothes and walks away. It’s as painful to watch as it is to think about. I feel vulnerable. I feel helpless. I feel exposed.  But more than anything, I feel betrayed.