Material Things.

Us, in a bathroom.

You kicked over the bottle of whiskey and sat on the toilet.

I stood, staring into your drunken face, my bloody handprint on your right shoulder of your grey shirt.

I held myself and asked you to acknowledge what you did.

You wouldn’t.

I don’t know what happened next. We went back to bed and I laid awake, in crippling waves of agony, listening to your blacked out breathing. I kept telling you I hurt. You said nothing.

No words.

After this I kept silent as a profession. So many things have passed by since I last heard my true voice.

I’ve been faking ever since.

Faking that this didn’t happen, faking normal. Pretending to be happy and normal. I only feel safe alone now.