Letters to Ignatius

Not “Small”, not “Humble”; no, not you, Fiery One

Dear Ignatius,

I wish I had known when I had first met you that you would come to ruin me. I wish I had known that you being tall and intimidating with that scowl wasn’t one of those “don’t judge a book by its cover” deals; that it was real, that I should’ve run, should’ve backed down, should’ve gotten out of the way before you caught me between your teeth, clamped down and left bite marks all over,

My back, my neck, my legs, my arms, my ears,

My lips

Your early gentleness was only a facade. Hand-holding, close hugs, soft kisses, and caresses flipped to a crushing grip on my arms, fingers wrapped around my neck, a fist, an opened hand across my face, shoves, pulling out my hair. I wasn’t allowed a voice. You shoved your fingers in my mouth, down my throat, in any attempt to stop me from speaking,

And my words were fewer and further in between.

Your sweet calls of “baby” turned to every cruel name imaginable from flimsy accusations. I was suddenly a slut, a bitch, a cunt, fucking stupid, so dumb, completely worthless, nothing special. I wasn’t allowed tears. Everything was my fault. I didn’t deserve you, I didn’t deserve my family, my belongings, my home, my friends, my life.

I believed every word you said.

Maybe I still do.

You’re poison, slow and sickly-sweet. You inched under my skin, I let you weasel in, let you take me down, intoxicate me, hold the cloth over my mouth so all I could breathe in was you, all I could take in was you, all that I was

Was you.

I should’ve just killed myself.

You said I should.

So why didn’t I?

You should’ve killed me.

You said so yourself.

So why didn’t you?