"You're like a roller coaster. And I want off."
His words still linger in the back of my mind, the way his hands used to linger at the bottom of my spine. Unwelcome, yet so intoxicating. Uninvited, yet so addicting.
This wasn't the kind of roller coaster you ran up to with confidence. Not the kind to produce hands-up squeals of delight and run back to over and over. No, this was the one someone else convinced you to ride. They coaxed you into the line and sat next to you, telling you how much you would love it. God, that roller coaster gave you a rush. But it made you sick.
You kept trying, because you WANT to love that roller coaster. You began to believe that you could conquer this coaster, but the coaster always found a way to conquer you. Over and over you tried, over and over the pain returned.
Your friends told you to get off the roller coaster. Easy to say, harder to do. They couldn't hear it calling out, taunting you. Begging for your return. Pulling you in. When you were on the roller coaster, you didn't dare go anywhere else, spend time with anyone else. "I want to get off," you whispered in vain. But you stayed. You knew you should go... but you just couldn't.
He called me the roller coaster. But truly, he was mine.