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He would touch my hair constantly, silently, as though I wouldn't know. He'd run his hands lightly over the tips or lift it, letting the weight fall back onto my shoulders. My hair became the weight of him, and he let it fall on me.

He wanted to make it more then it was, more than it ever could be. I kept telling him to Slow down, back off, Wait, I said. Give me some space. He'd comb my hair forward over my face, his fingers agitated in response. He thought he could blind me that way to any sort of sense, but all it did was help me keep him out.

I felt like I was losing myself, every day another part sliding away, more of me blending into the thing we shared. I was becoming half of an entity I wasn't sure I liked, I was becoming hair and a hand to hold, I was turning into a statement.

I probably should have told him that I was disappearing, but I didn't. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening, I tried to get some sense of myself back. I selfishly wanted to keep some of me for just me. And when he took my hand, he dared to take my hand, one more part of me was relinquished. It was one bit too much, it was my invisible line and he crossed it.

I changed my shampoo, and he challenged me. He thought it proof of something, he reached to touch my hair hysterically, our voices high with fear and confusion. I was sure everyone in the building could hear us, could hear me restaking my claim on myself, taking me back for me.

I cut my hair after he left.

She would squeeze me gently and I would pour into her hand and then she would rub my being into her hair; every morning she would do this and every morning right after our beloved display of affection she would proceed to fondle the towel! Making me watch in my misery. The nerve she had to make me suffer in such a manner every day from the moment we had met. After she was done with the towel she would leave, only to come back every so often and pretend that I was a stranger as she lost herself in her facewash or gave her self to the toilet, perhaps even doing unpeakable things with the toothbrush. I was lost in my love for her, more and more violently transcending my downward spiral.

Every new bottle of me that she bought, I was more and more infatuated, more and more sent into oblivion until one day she tore my soul into a million shreds of darkness. She left me crippled, pathetic and useless, alone in the blackness of my misery for all eternity.

She changed brands.

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