Boys

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Boys, they always told me I sounded like a victim, always told me i was victimizing myself. And maybe they were right. I’ve been trying to find an answer for my worthless rummage sale of a life for ages looking into the eyes of boys who only saw me for my beauty. The pale skin with the ugly clothes. I was always the poorest kid in the richest suburb. We always had enough to get by, no more, no less. I always seemed to manage to find the ugliest clothes and make them beautiful again. Yes, it took a very long time to make them beautiful, but i guess “bargain prices” and “trend setting” are synonymous these days. Those boys looked me in the eyes and told me, girl let down your wall so i can walk right into your heart and stumble all over it. Somehow I always managed to find the ones that needed fixing, the ones that needed some polishing. I did it to myself. I  found the ones who always had an excuse to bring me back, even when i had enough. Somehow, some boy always managed to make me feel like i had no control, and that i was just another game he could collect. I collected these boys as if they were shoes, some had holes and needed some lacing together, but we fit a pair, always the same size but never the same style. I found a metal head who loved poetry and knowledge, but also loved blame and guilt, and ego. I found a musically inclined boy who couldn’t understand why i always gave rude glances at his new girlfriend.  I fell in love with a Tall boy who loved the taste of my lips but thought racism, and sexism were cool and edgy. I make it sound as though i have no faults at all but god i do, i take my thoughts and multiply them by ten and turn them into feelings, then i multiply those feelings by another, lets say 80 %, and turn that into love. I told every boy i fell for i loved him. And at the time i thought i meant it. I thought that selling away my one liners and adorable cuddling whispers could buy me a new life. That the old girl who was searching for attention in middle school, when she never received it gave more attention to detail, in the fingers in the knuckles in the wrists until they all formed into a fist cracking against some boys rib bones. I know i am only victimizing myself but the second someone calls me a victim i want to turn them into one. A victim of my ongoing rage and pain. I don’t know where it all comes from but some words hit home a lot harder than others. When those boys told me i victimized myself, i thought of all the times i slid the cold blade across my wrist and kissed the blood hello. I thought of all the times i was asking for someone to talk to and no one tried to listen. I thought of all the times I hit someone else because they couldn’t understand the pain i covered in a joking punch. I cloaked my dreams at the seams and let my tears fold over each other like stitches. I only wanted someone to care. But then I started forcing people to care, forcing boys to care, manipulating every movement like it was a heist, and my grand treasure was their heart but somehow mine always ended up the one broken. You try to force someone to care, you end up the only one caring. The only victim, is the one who doesn’t  realize you can’t force anything. A boy is a boy, and a man will never call you, a victim.

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