He slowly kissed her knees, his lips touching every bruise and scar – the wounds that he could see. He wished he had been able to heal as easily the demons inside her.
In his shade, she felt somehow safer. But she still couldn’t sleep. Night after night, she would get trapped in her sheets trying to escape from her nightmares. She wore them like shackles every morning under her swollen eyes. And it just got worse and worse. Her demons were smart. Even after she would wake up, sweaty and lost, they continued to pursue her, eating her alive.
She could feel them , she once told him. Curling up in her ribcage, scattering in her ventricles. I’m carrying so many inside me. Dead people. I can’t let go of them. I fell in love with their ghosts.
Her eyes, they looked like empty ruins haunted by people long gone.
Then write about them, he said. Shut them off and imprison them on paper.
I don’t know if paper can handle them.
Give it a try.
So writing became her morphine. In the long hours of convalescence, she wrote about what she was most afraid – the touch that was forever imprinted on her skin, the goodbyes that she never said, the letters she couldn’t bring herself to send. Sometimes he saw her, a pale shadow angrily scribbling the demons in her mind. She spilled words and blood from all those wounds, only to begin to bleed again the next day.
She could feel the trace of her ghosts in her words, vividly trying to emerge from the thin paper. But she wrote anyway ; she wrote until him, the one who stayed, was the only lover left standing.