Natalia Vela

Smile. Every day, smile. Even when it hurts. Smile. When they ask you what’s wrong tell them you’re fine.

I’d crawl naked on all fours to him and kneel at his feet when he wanted me to “come here.” I’d play submissive. I’d play dominant to fulfill other cravings. I’d play canvas, and I’d let his belt be the brush he used to fervently stroke each crimson shade with.

You are the reason why your life isn’t happier.

Maybe I only loved you because you made me feel alive. Maybe you only ever made me feel alive with your touch.

He looks at you the way you subconsciously have always wanted him to, the way he has in one, two, three or seven dreams.

You look at me and it’s something reminiscent of meteorites. There’s a swelling in my chest, a heady fire mixing in my veins.

I began to lose fingers from the frostbite in beds I should have never crawled into. My lips cracked from from kissing mouths that would never say my name.

I’d give anything to go back to that night you and I shared only with two bottles of wine and Christmas lights.

Afternoon of Christmas Day, and all but one of the Lawsons would be dead. The bodies of each family member were found with rocks beneath their heads and their arms crossed. To this day the motive and reason behind the murders remains a mystery.

Just because you don’t remember your assault doesn’t mean you weren’t assaulted.

Sometimes forgiveness doesn’t serve you. Sometimes forgiveness only serves the person holding the knife.

I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker, its potency too much for my overworking heart and overthinking mind.