He is my blind spot, the part I’m oblivious to, the part I refuse to see.
He has robbed me so many times, over and over and over again, but still I see nothing.
Merely a mirage. A shimmer on the horizon.
I can hear him; his smooth talk, like an eel, cool and shining and so slippery you cannot get a good hold, you just watch as his words slip away back into the depths of the air.
I can smell him, his stale cigarettes; his signature perfume. I never touch him though, that is forbidden, he pulls away if I dare to inch forward.
I ran away, but he tracked me down, and still I don’t see the damage and destruction I allowed. Others point it out, slam it in front of me, showing me pictures and telling me truths. But I am blind to this, because deep inside he feeds me, a part of me that I am blind to, it is a meeting of our darkness, tentacles reaching each other through the distance, a tugging, a needing a longing, a destroying.
Perhaps I am his blind spot too, perhaps he only sees the outer me, the smile, the lies and the perfume bought in airport lounges.
Perhaps I need a special mirror, attach it to my emotions so they can reflect from all angles.
I could buy one, but I don’t. We are a car crash in slow motion neither of us can escape from.