Young

When we met, we were too young and too blind to see the danger we were in. He was sheltered and dying to get out. I was out and dying for shelter. He had long since rejected his families faith, he grew to hate it and it chewed on him from the inside for years and years. His imperfection and his curiosity caused huge rifts between him and his family. I fit perfectly into those cracks.

I was everything that his mother did not want in a girlfriend for her beloved son. She had such hopes for him. Such standards and dreams that had nothing to do with who he actually was. It was all in her head. Her attempts at rehab, day treatment, prayers and blessings…all for nothing. He was not what she wanted. But I was exactly what he wanted. I accepted and encouraged his growing disdain. I showed too much skin, wore too much make-up, too much everything. He clung to me. I opened door after door for him. We walked together into the woods, the woods got darker.

I was desperate to be seen. to be loved, to be understood. He had no way to do this, and the more he couldn’t the more I needed. The more rituals we did the heavier they became, the deeper they went. That which was raised, was very hard to put back. Everything became a haze of road trips, a crappy apartment, cats and a long dead lizard. I was so empty, I needed things from him that he could never give me. He needed me not to need him.

As much as he wanted away form his mother, the more he wanted me to be that for him. To keep a perfect kitchen, to do all the housework, to comfort and hold and protect and work and give. I was lonely and alone more often than not. But he was not to blame. I understood. I was a vessel that needed so much more than anyone could give. Things got darker and heavier. Cupboards began slamming on their own plates began breaking when no one was in the room. The garbage can tipped itself over and the faucets would turn on by themselves. It is never a good idea to practice magick and ritual when you are so broken inside. I had to learn this the hard way. I ended up in hospital with kidney problems. He never came to get me. I took the bus home. I understood the end before he did I think.

When he left, I punched the bathroom door until it had huge holes in it and my hand was broken. Literally. It turned purple and I would stare at it with a developing depression that I never really got out of.

Drugs, alcohol, despair, and of course a dash of stupidity all went into a cauldron that swirled for years in my mind. He found someone else, as all men do. I was replaced for the first time, but most surely not the last.

His pain came to roost as well. He spent years trying to put himself back together. So have I.

We were dangerous together, lust and love and blood and pain….it became our everything. and it was so addictive. Everything we touched together was ruined, everything we felt was too much, too big, too heavy. We were too young to handle it. I never, ever talk about our time together to anyone. How can anyone ever really understand? He was a secret I kept, our time was a secret…locked away. Our scars, yes the same ones in the same places kept our secrets sealed up tight. The intensity of our time could never have been sustained.

I wanted to be allowed this secret. I wanted to control the conjure. It was mine. Lessons learned in my own time, should have been kept veiled. They were mine to keep.

Oh how I wish he hadn’t looked, and pulled and dug. Why could he not just let me have this one thing? One thing…just my own. One thing I did not have to confess to, to explain and to justify. One shameful thing that I could just keep to myself, that I did not have to drag out for inspection. He looked, its all open now, and it was not for him. He has everything, everything from me. Everything is open and on display for him. Except this, and now he owns this too.