If Fire Was A Lover

February 1st, 2021

Logan had been ignoring me again. He was upset that I hadn't answered his calls for a day, so he didn't answer mine for several days. I even showed up to his house once and he texted me to leave, he wouldn't even let me in. The chokehold he had on me was embarrassing. I'd let him do anything to me. I'd let him say anything to me. I'd let him say nothing to me, I would let him pretend that I did not exist. I'd convince myself that I hated him, that I was done with him, and then I would show up at his doorstep with tears in my eyes and a confession on my lips.

I couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't act as if I could be a ghost to the person who I was utterly in love with. I refused to go another day without him. I would make him see me, even if I had to light my clothes on fire and dance to get his attention, I would make him see me.

When I showed up at his house, I unlocked the door and went inside. Only he was home, and it was eerily quiet when I stepped inside. I went up to his room and opened his door, he looked up at me. His eyes said sorry so that his lips would not be forced to speak the words, and he came to hug me. He didn't let me go for a while. I don't think he knew how to let go. He felt bad for hurting me, and I felt bad for letting him, and at that moment we felt it all together. I embraced him and felt his strong arms around my waist, his cold face pressed against my neck, his wet tears soaking through my shirt.

"What are we doing to each other?" He whispered. I began to cry.

We sat on his bed a few feet away from each other, afraid of what horrific events might happen if we were too close. We were like fire and gasoline, we couldn't touch each other without igniting and burning down everything around us until we ourselves had become ashes. We were never meant to be together, not in that way. We didn't know how to be together without ruining each other. He killed me, and I killed him with the pain that he put me through, his guilt was a weight that even a God could not carry.

Logan turned on his T.V and tried to ignore that I was there in his house, in his room, in his bed. I stared at the side of his face as he stared into the screen, knowing he didn't have the energy or the compassion to deal with me and my mess of emotions. I moved closer to him and laid on his lap. Even if he didn't look at me, I needed him to feel me. I needed him to realize that I was alive, that I had a heartbeat behind the chest he ripped open, I needed him to know that I was real and I was his. He played with my hair, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Logan, why won't you look at me?" I asked him. He didn't say anything. "Do you still want me?" I whispered, scared of his answer. He looked down at me and wrapped his arms around me.

"Of course I do, Liz." He said and kissed my head. "I'll always want you." He told me.

"I'll always want you, too." I told him, and I knew that I was the only one telling the truth. He smiled and pushed my shoulders down. I fought him a little bit but he knew he was stronger than me, and I knew that too. He pushed me down so that I laid on his legs, my head where he preferred it to be. He unzipped his pants and I started breathing heavily.

I took control of him in that moment, I decided that he was now mine, he couldn't hurt me anymore. I'd give him what he wanted, and he had to treat me as if I were human. I'd give anything for him to see me as a person. I'd die for just the promise he'd see me. I gave into his desires, it was the only time that I actually tried. Usually I just laid there, crying and unable to move. But not that time. I did everything I knew he loved, I did everything that would make him say he loved me, and I didn't cry. I was so proud of myself, I didn't cry at all. In fact, I was not sad, I was angry, I was livid. I took every bit of anger inside of me and I forced it onto Logan, I loved him aggressively, the same way he loved me.

He smiled at me and I think he slightly feared me at that moment. He realized that I could be aggressive, that I could hurt him if I wanted to, and that I knew how to make him vulnerable. And right as he was about to get what he wanted, I hit him. I hit him hard, where it hurt. I slapped it as hard as I could and I shoved him down.

"What the hell is your problem?" He yelled at me. I started to laugh, I laughed harder than I'd ever laughed before. I thought I had finally lost my mind. I laughed in his face and I kept hitting him in the stomach. I knew it didn't hurt him, but he could hardly breathe because of how hard I had slapped him where he was most masculine. He pushed me off of the bed and I hit my head on his end table before I hit the ground. My laughter faded. Logan sat next to me and rubbed my back, trying to tell me that what I did to him was okay, that he wasn't mad, and that he was sorry for hurting me again. The top of my head was throbbing and I stared blankly at the purple wall as he tried to comfort me. I was just as bad as him. I was even worse. I hurt him too, so I finally did it. It took me long enough but I hit him, just like he hit me. And I never hated myself more than I did in that moment.

"I'm so sorry, I don't know why I did that." I said quietly.

"It's okay Liz, you were just joking." He said. I looked up at him to see his face when he said it. He knew it wasn't a joke, and I knew it too. I hated him sometimes, and I wanted to hurt him. It wasn't a joke, it wasn't an accident, there was no mistake made. I wanted to kill him, but I couldn't paint him as the victim.