The first time we make love. Is that what we called it? It wasn’t love, perhaps we said fucking. I liked to shock you with words back then, when it was all brand new. You were afraid to say pussy and so I laughed and said cunt, it snapped off my tongue and loosened something in you. Be anything but polite I told you. I don’t want polite. Polite is nice, and we are not nice people, you and I. We are capable of anything – I watched this concept thrill you, even as you shook your head, no.
Was it calculated, the way I cut your ties that night? The precision with which I unravelled all the little knots? I had figured you out my love. Your desire for the things you couldn’t reconcile. You came from a line of women whose marks were all on the inside when I wore my flaws like tattoos, stamped all over my skin for you to explore. And you surrendered nice so easily, using those tattoos as guideposts.
But you never did understand nuance. Your fascination with my jagged edges snared us both in the end. Civility was the first casualty of our affair.