ash.

Breathe. Just once, just twice; just keep doing it. If breathing is a sign of strength, I guess I must be strong. He tears me down in all his possible ways. He shames me, he embarrasses me, he hurts me, he takes me for granted and he yells at me. He tears and tears and tears, till I'm just here. Still a rather large mass, yes. But a mass of hurt, confusion, anger, rage, love, hate, sexuality, and everything else he makes me feel. And he just stares, uttering that apology that hurts worse; that apology that is not an apology, but a challenge to keep going.  And by God, I always do. I fuel hism fire because I know I will get him to where I am. And we can stand, masses of hurt, staring at one another with the expression screaming "why do you do this?" But we do this for love, somehow. And his mass of hurt moves closer still, because I know him, even in this state. His motive is to fix it, to get me back, to restore he and I to the beings we were before the anger unfolded. So I can put my cloak back on and cover my hurt. He touches me lightly, tracing the wounds that make my hips and waistline fall so nicely. Kisses the marks that make my lips so delicate and fragile. My insides shiver, knowing he's going to break it all again. He continues touching and touching, until the touching turns into the thrusting that usually happens between he and I. And at the end, I fall into that pile of ashes he keeps by his bed. No more.