Blame

Something sits at the end of my tongue.

A memory that is unable to form into words.

A distant train bellows with the same frustration that pollutes the whites of my eyes.

I no longer see the same.

No longer feel.

Is that what you wanted?

To drain the colour from the world so that I finally saw behind the heavy curtain?

The illusions dissolve and only the truth remains.

Truth.

What is that exactly?

That fragile masculinity teeters on a tightrope of volatility?

That baritone voices laced with malice will burn the world to ashes?

The hand wrapping around my core, settling in the small of my back once filled me with a sense of safety, protection.

That was a lie.

Those same soft fingers are now claws, dragging across my flesh.

It breaks apart.

Crimson pouring down the porcelain canvas.

A melodic hum breathes in my ear,

“Look what you made me do.”

The colour drains from the world, pooling at my feet.

The memory at the tip of my tongue retreats

burrowing itself in the furthest reaches of my mind.

The train still bellows.

The truth constricts around my throat, only to be seen but never uttered.

Never heard.

All the while my ears keep ringing with his words,

Look what you made me do.

Look what you made me do.