Cha-ma

I wonder if you know what I’m doing to you. 

You’re not one to be suspicious. Never have been, never will be. But sometimes I find myself thinking you must have some sort of inkling. You’re not stupid either, not naive. But I wonder sometimes if you know. If you ever doubt me. If your heart ever beats too fast in your chest, sickening you with the feeling that something must be wrong. 

Or maybe you’ve always known.

Maybe you like it.

You’ve always liked kissing. This is normal – the way you’re kissing me now. Messy and disgusting. It’s all saliva and clattering teeth. You open your mouth for me, jaw popping with the action. It’s gross. I’ve never liked this. 

I’ve never liked you. 

I’ve never liked kissing. Or sex. Too many bodily fluids, too much noise. And the risk of a sexually transmitted infection has never been as appealing to me as it seems to be to everyone else. I don’t enjoy sex with you. I hope that tonight’s kissing session doesn’t lead to anything beyond a few touches – below the waist if I have to. But I want it to stop there.

And it does. Or I do. I push you away as gently as I can, holding your body away from mine at arm’s length. I can see your bones poking out at your chest. There’s your collarbones. Second rib, third rib. Sternum. 

“Why’d you stop?” 

“I’m not in the mood tonight.”

I’m never in the mood for you. 

And you’re hurt by that, because of course you are. Your eyes are all wide like a baby deer’s, tears pooling at the corners, because of course something like this would make you cry. You think I don’t want you, I don’t love you, I’m not attracted to you. 

“Baby,” I say, reaching out to touch your cheek, “It’s not you, okay?” 

And I wait for you to nod.

Then you do. It’s small, barely there.

“I love you, baby,” I continue, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek for good measure, “I love you. I’m just tired tonight. Another time, hm? So I can give you what you deserve.” 

And I wait for you to smile. 

Then you do. It’s shy, wistful. Eager.

“Can you kiss me?” 

Because of course that’s what you want. 

It’s a wonder you aren’t suspicious by now.

“Of course.” I reply, smiling lightly. I press my lips to yours, soft and sweet. Quick.

“You’re so good to me,” Your voice is a whisper – all raspy and hoarse. I wish you wouldn’t smoke. It’s painful to hear you talk. 

Do you ever wonder? 

“It’s because you deserve it, baby.” I plant another kiss on your lips for good measure. It makes you smile. Your teeth are yellow. 

Do you ever wonder where the feelings come from? The ones that ravage your mind so much you don’t sleep at night? 

“Did you eat?” I ask, leaning into you and pressing my face into your neck. It smells salty, like sweat. It makes me sick, but I bite into it softly with my teeth. 

I wait for you to reply. I know you’re hesitating. I wish you wouldn’t. 

“I ordered some pizza earlier. I had that.” 

It’s a lie. It’s always a lie, but I don’t care. I smile into your neck, and then pull away. Between my palms, I hold your face like it’s something precious. You always like it when I do that, you like the way people call us cute when I kiss the corner of your mouth. 

“Good.” I reply. 

It’s things like these that make me suspicious of you. The way you lie to my face, the way you do it knowing I don’t believe you. The way you let me hurt you. 

Maybe you’ve always known.

Maybe you like it.

I picked you because you were easy. Because you smiled at strangers on the street, kissed them when they asked for it. Took criticism to heart, let it keep you awake for weeks on end. Painted your thighs in pretty red lines when you thought no one was looking. 

You were easy. You’re still easy. 

To hurt, to trap. All you need is a few kind words, and you’re stuck to me like glue.

But maybe I’m not giving you enough credit. I like to toy with the idea sometimes, that you know what I’m doing to you. That you know how I would die without you. How I thrive on every hurt that crawls its treacherous way into your heart. That I hurt you. That you let me. That you like it. 

That you like me.

That you love me.

That you would die without me. 

And I have to be grateful to you, don’t I? You’re the reason I’m still here. I don’t like kissing you. I don’t like the stench of your sweat. I don’t like how your teeth are yellow, how your right incisor is slightly crooked. I don’t like these things, but I can’t hate you too much. I’m indebted to you, after all. 

Have you figured it out? 

I find myself leaning forward to kiss you. It’s not sweet; it’s messy like the first one you gave me tonight. Messier, actually. Clattering teeth, biting lips. 

I need you to survive. Not you specifically. But you’re easy. Convenient. When I hurt you, you let me. Even when it’s obvious what I’m doing. Your friends think we’re cute together. Your parents love me – and the money from my job. 

I think I can taste your blood in my teeth. Sour. Metallic. I pull away.

I have a power that lets me give pain to others. I need it to survive. Pain is like oxygen to me. Or maybe more like water. I could go without it for a day or so, but I’ll need it eventually. It’s a lifeforce. You’re a lifeforce. 

You push me back against the couch. 

You kiss me.

I let you.