I remember when I thought you might kill me.
It happened more than once. The arbitrary lines you would say, soft and with a devilish grin that implied I had saved you from becoming a killer. Was there a way to internalize that didn’t suggest you were capable of violence?
Today I’m stuck in loops of your hands on my throat and you fucking me. I can barely remember the fucking. I remember feeling far, far away and my body feeling disconnected from me. I remember how peaceful that felt, that disconnect from my physical self. I remember the very distant panic that you might kill me then.
It was soft. That place my dying brain took me to. Easy, like falling asleep or falling down a rabbit hole ending in feathers and pillows. There was fear but it was buried beneath the fuzz that it was hard to hear and even harder to do anything about.
So I did nothing. I stopped feeling you move inside of me and instead embraced the quiet comfort of nothing.
I don’t remember what happened next. I remember what happened after. When you confessed the fear that you would have to stay with me forever because you had given me brain damage because my cognitive abilities were off from the lack of oxygen for hours.
Was that love?