Prayer

I've tidied the house because I think you're looking, judging maybe. Tidied it because I like you, respect you even. You're strange, not like my other friends. I don't know why you're coming really. You don't belong here. You don't fit in. I want to see your hair ruffled, to see tears in your eyes or to make you run your fingers over my scars. I want to take you so deep into my pain that you can't climb out. Just like me. Trapped.

When you arrive I try to look natural. One of those 'posh' kisses on the cheek. I don't understand them, but it's what you always do and I want to get it right. I offer you a drink. You don't want one. Seem preoccupied. You're sitting so upright on the sofa it makes me uncomfortable. I imagine you kicking back with a joint - it makes me smirk - I relax. I want to talk, to draw you in, but you're not playing. You want to pray.

We sit apart. I draw my legs up to my chin and drop my head in feigned reverence. You're still upright - I think. The praying begins. The room shrinks, closes in quickly. These are your rules, not mine. I get scared. You pray for my healing. You don't want me to cut. It repulses you. You want Jesus to take it away. You tell Him to, but I control the cutting, not Him. You move near to me. Your hand is on my back and it's cold. I shudder and hope you don't feel it. You only touch with your fingertips. Am I that disgusting? I know you're going to do it but it disappoints me. You pray in tongues. Except it doesn't sound like tongues. Your mouth is dry and I don't like hearing you battle with it.

I imagine myself away. Not here; not bolted to this moment, not strapped to this game. I think of cutting. It helps. I will cut when you've gone, because you're hurting me. Not much - just a few slashes on my upper arm. Just enough to show that you didn't understand - that you're just like everyone else. You don't understand. You need to stop praying, I can't last much longer. I can't breath. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

I jump up and I go. Away. Quickly, violently away. Up the stairs. Slam the door of my bedroom and throw myself on the bed. I scream into the pillow. F*CKING HELL, F*CKING HELL!! My breathing is so loud. I need to concentrate, to stay present. I have to be calm.

Downstairs, you're waiting. Still sitting upright. Hair still unruffled. You twat!

You need to leave now.