The Sadist as: my lover: home

These days I’m struggling to find my place with J. He is the sort of man who hurts you without knowing he has done so, and at the same time, he also hurts you on purpose. Most of the time it is easy to tell the difference, other times it takes you a few moments in your hurt, tear-fogged brain to sort out the details for posterity.

I am a girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, and my lover, the sadist, knows just how to cut me to make me bleed out the most. I’ve told him. I don’t know how to keep secrets like that from my lover. I don’t know how to protect myself as he, obviously, does. I can hurt him, but my brain always closes my mouth before I do, as if even in this, he rules over me. There are so many things I can say, and sometimes desperately want to say, but cannot, because I don’t want to see his face change.

I don’t want to hurt him. I am not the sadist here. I would only wound him and myself by trying to out-maneuver him. He needs me to remind him to have some compassion. He needs me to comfort him.

He is so fierce. He fights for everything, has fought battles that I would have lost, and so home, needs to be calm. Neutral. His friend explained it to me. So alike they are, so open with their friends, but so closed with their lovers. J too, his friend, more. I could spend the day, ferreting out S’s brain for details, but it isn’t the same as hearing it from J’s mouth.

I wish J wrote like S does. I would read it until the strain made my eyes water. I wouldn’t sleep. J’s book is the one I’d keep with me all the time.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this. I don’t think I’ve ever been this in love, this AWARE of my love, until him. I want to crawl inside him. I want to feel his skin against mine. I want his husky laughter in my ear.

Most of all, I want to be his home; his comfort, the place where he can whisper his secrets and feel weightless.