Slow time.

(This was sent out on my Tiny Letter, but I know they get lost in junk mail, and some of you might not be subscribed to it. To tell you the truth I’m not sure I like tiny letter, I don’t know why but emailing pics and smut to people just feels.... weird. Like on tumblr or Patreon you choose to come and take a look at my bullshit, sending it to someone’s email feels so invasive in a strange way I can’t articulate. I also don’t like that when you send a tiny letter you can’t edit it afterwards, so when the formatting is weird or you miss a typo or you’re accidentally too vulnerable it’s just OUT THERE LIKE THAT. But I like it here, it feels like I can ramble and share whatever I feel inspired to share. Which in this case is a prose-y thing about my ex and kink and all of the feels. It’s been almost a year since the break up and I’m SUPER still not over it. So I write sappy things and share them on tiny letter and then instantly regret it because there is no “undo” button. Living and learning over here in 2019.)

Sometimes I put the kettle on and fall into another dimension. I find tea I left steeping for so long it’s gone cold. I forget. Things pull me away. It doesn’t cross my mind. It disappears. Why can’t I forget other things so easily?

“I miss hurting you,” he says, and I flinch. I’m silently hoping the next one is harder. When his knuckles hit my cheekbone I’m relieved. It hurts. For a second I see that white-hot flash in my mind, my eyes are shut tight, but every other muscle in my body is relaxed and limp under his hands. This should be a nightmare, but I want it. I need it. I can't think of anything else.

I feel like I’m only half awake, in a haze of memory and his smell. I put on the kettle.

Drinking a cup of tea at the perfect temperature is one of the greatest comforts I know. I swallow, thankful. I managed to remember it would help, I stayed on task. This break up needs aftercare. Still.

It’s snowing outside and I miss the sun, but sweet black tea with lots of milk can warm me up as I press my fingertips into the sore spot on my cheek and wonder how much harder he’d have to hit me to leave a bruise. Not a black eye or a big purple mess, just the faintest hint of a bruise, that tender yellow that shows you’re healing.

I am healing, I think. I don’t have a choice really, I survived so the healing happens naturally, over time. It’s just what the body does, right? A bruise heals by design. If you leave it alone.

I can’t leave it alone though. I wake up and push on the sore spots. I lie in bed at night pouring salt in the wound. I can’t forget. I dream about his thumb against the roof of my mouth and his teeth sinking into my flesh, I dream about the way my bones made room for him. I miss all of the various aches.

I sip again, there’s no rush. Time moves so slowly when you’re in mourning.